


Rarely so lazy

by lobstergirl



Series: Of Fur and Feathers [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Urban Fantasy, M/M, Owlcroft, Silver Fox Lestrade, Were-Creatures
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-07
Updated: 2015-02-22
Packaged: 2018-03-06 11:10:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 30,076
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3132329
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lobstergirl/pseuds/lobstergirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Urban fantasy AU in which a creature of air and a creature of earth find out it’s not their similarities that attract them to one another but their differences, for simplicity and complexity need each other <em>(John Maeda)</em>.<br/>Sometimes it’s that easy.</p><p>“It's impossible”, said pride.<br/>“It's risky”, said experience.<br/>“It's pointless”, said reason.<br/>“But, give it a try”, whispered the heart.<br/><em>(Unknown)</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Introduction

**1985**

The fox slithered down the steep slope and landed in the middle of the cave-like underground space that had seemed so much more interesting when peered into from his safe hiding spot under the thick bushes above ground.  For a moment he lay still, dazed with embarrassment more than anything else, flicking his large ears back and forth in the attempt to catch each and every noise, but the only sounds he heard were a steady drip and the soft rustle of the leaves he had landed in.  With a sneeze and a grunt he got up, shook the mouldy leaves out of his fur and started sniffing around.

 _::Brilliant,::_ he muttered. _::Abso-fucking-lutely brilliant. Been here dozens of times before, done all kinds of shit, but noooo,::_ he sneezed again, _::lose balance like an idiot and land belly first in this dump.::_   He sniffed a corner and backed off in disgust. _::Ah, gross. Some potheads taking a piss here. This is just wonderful. Where are the bloody… ah.::_

Stairs. Just as he remembered.  Narrow and covered with damp moss, but his thickly padded feet didn’t slip once.  Thin rays of moonlight shone through the cracks of the old door that was… securely locked. 

_::What the –::_ He barked and jumped up against the wooden planks, his small body creating no more than a soft _thump_.  The door’s old, sturdy hinges didn’t even creak. _::What the bloody buggering fucking FUCK is that?::_ He barked and jumped against the unyielding wood some more. _::I don’t bloody believe it.::_

He sat back on his haunches and eyed the now impenetrable wall.  If this door was truly locked, then he was truly screwed.  The metal bars holding the door in place wouldn’t move, no matter how often he would throw himself against it, and there was little to no chance he would be able to climb up that slippery passage he had slid down.  He remembered hearing this… room, cave, whatever, had been designed as the medieval equivalent of a detention cell centuries ago and there was no way out except for the tiny window, but that was out of his reach. 

His sole chance lay in somebody hearing him.  While it was already dark outside, it was a lovely summer night and perhaps there were some late wanderers still about, or maybe a romantic couple looking for a quiet hideaway spot.  He sat back on his haunches and started barking.  Bark-howling.  Crying.  Anything in his vocal repertoire that was loud enough to attract attention.

 _::Good God, how much noise can you make?::_ The sharp voice cut through his barking, making him start and yelp in surprise. _::Which part of shut up have you missed?::_ the voice snapped. 

The fox pressed himself close to the ground. _::Who are you? And… where are you?::_

A barely suppressed sigh was the answer to that. _::Noisy as a banshee and blind as a bat. Amazing. Look up.::_

He obeyed and searched the ceiling.  Nothing.  His gaze travelled along the opposite wall and to the window where something moved out of the shadows it had been hiding in.  A large figure perched on the ledge, now illuminated by the silvery moonlight.

 _::An owl.::_ It came out disappointed, and the owl clicked his beak in annoyance.

_::Apologies.::_

_::Can you see anything from up there?::_

_::Like what?::_

_::Like… people?::_ the fox offered, rolling his eyes as well as a fox could. _::Like… help?::_

The owl glared at him out of huge orange eyes. _::Sorry to disappoint again, but it seems we’re on our own.::_

_::Bugger.::_

They sat in resigned silence.

_::Should I bark some more? Maybe somebody will hear us.::_

_::Please don’t. If anything, it will drive people away.::_

_::But –::_

_::No but,::_ the owl said sharply. _::If I have to listen to any more of your screeching, my ears will start to bleed.::_

_::Then what do you suggest?::_

_::I’m thinking.::_

_::Fine. You do that. I’ll see if there’s another way out of here.::_

The owl swivelled his head and stared out of the window while the fox inspected the small room some more but other than the window, there was indeed no way out.  Trapped.  _Bloody hell._

 _::Why don’t you try and squeeze through and get help?::_ he finally suggested. _::There should be enough space for you between the bars. Most birds are more feather than bird, and I bet you can make yourself really small.::_

_::What an ingenious idea. And how do you think I should do that? Without arms or an extra set of legs? What if I get stuck? Then what? It’s not like I can spread my wings and haul myself through there.::_

_::Oh.::_

The owl made an exasperated sound. _::That’s right. Oh. I wonder how you lot ever gained a reputation of being cunning.::_

 _::Oh yeah? What about wise owls? If you’re that smart, how come you got stuck here, eh?::_ the fox shot back, but when he wasn’t graced with a reply, he made his way into the corner that was farthest away from the annoying bird and flopped down gracelessly.

_::Well, let’s get comfy then. Looks like we’ll be here all night.::_

After a heartfelt and extensive yawn, he curled up into a neat little ball and closed his eyes, but a soft _whoosh_ made him look up again.  The owl had left his spot by the window and was eyeing him from up close. 

_::What now?::_

_::I was wondering if you could weasel your way through the bars.::_

_::I bet I could,::_ the fox said dismissively, _::but unless I sprout a pair of wings I don’t see how I can get up there.::_

_::How much do you weigh?::_

_::What?::_

_::Noisy, blind and deaf?::_

Damn that bird.  The fox snapped his jaws at the owl who didn’t move as much as a feather, clearly unimpressed.  Orange eyes bore into his without blinking, and the fox sighed.

_::About one point two stone. Why?::_

_::Are you sure? You don’t look that heavy.::_

_::All sinew and muscle, fluffy.::_

_::I thought maybe I could carry you up.::_

_::What? No way you’re digging your claws into my hide. I like it as it is, thank you.::_

_::You’re too heavy anyway. Unless…::_ The owl hopped back and tilted his head as if to measure something.

_::Unless what?::_

_::How far from floor to window? What do you think?::_

_::Uhm,::_ the fox narrowed his eyes and squinted up. _::Seven-two, seven-four, maybe?::_

 _::That’s what I thought,::_ the owl agreed in a satisfied voice and looked at the fox who flattened his ears in suspicion.

 _::I said,::_ he repeated, _::stay the hell away from me. No claws.::_

_::Do you trust me?::_

_::Not one bit.::_

_::Fair enough. What if I promise I won't hurt you?::_

_::Why doesn’t this make me feel any better?::_

_::Listen,::_ the owl said impatiently, _::I want to get out, you want to get out. I have an idea but you must promise me not to lose your nerve.::_

_::Or else what?::_

_::Or else we’ll be stuck here until somebody unlocks the door.::_

_::And that might take a while.::_

_::Exactly. So. Ready?::_

_::Whatever, fluffy.::_ He sighed when another piercing glare was bestowed on him. _::I promise I won’t faint.::_

_::Or scream.::_

_::What do you think I am? A girl?::_

_::Guess I’ll never find out.::_

The owl stepped back some more and suddenly the fox’ vision blurred.  He blinked a couple of times and shook his head with his eyes closed.  When he opened them again, the owl was gone.

A pale shape sat crouched where the owl had been moments ago.  The fox let out a surprised bark.

 _::What the –::_ he started but was cut off immediately.

“Shhh. I told you, no barking.”

_::No, you said, no screaming.::_

“Same thing.”  The shape straightened into the form of a tall young man who looked down at the small fox. “Well?”

_::Well what?::_

“Are you alright?”

_::Do you see me quiver?::_

“No,” the man said slowly, “I don’t.” He cocked his head, then cleared his throat. “Will you let me touch you?”

_::What for?::_

“I think I can reach the ledge if I get on my toes. I could lift you up and if you can squeeze through, you can get help. What do you think?”

 _::This is not a bad idea,::_ the fox said in reluctant agreement.

“It’s our best shot.”

 _::I’m afraid you’re right.::_ He steeled himself. _::Okay then, you may lift me up. No cuddling,::_ he said warningly when the man bent down to reach for him. _::I am no pet, alright?::_

“Understood.”

He was picked up, carefully, and carried across the room to the window.  The young man lifted him high above his head and, stretching up as far as he could, pushed the fox onto the ledge with a grunt.

“Are you alright up there? Can I let go or will you fall down?”

_::Everything’s fine, thank you.::_

He eyed the barred window.  It would be a very tight squeeze but he just might make it.  He took a deep breath and exhaled just as deeply, making himself as thin and small as possible, and started worming through the tight opening.  Head and shoulders went through easily enough but suddenly he got stuck and experienced a surge of panic while his paws were scratching frantically for something to hold on to, hindlegs pushing with all the strength he could muster.

Pain shot through him and he yelped when something sharp connected with his flank.  He wriggled about some more and finally, with one last push of his strong hindlegs, shot through the opening and sat still for a moment, panting heavily.

“Everything okay with you?” The voice sounded worried, and he turned to peer through the bars.

_::All good. I think I left some of my fur behind but I’m fine.::_

“Oh, I’m glad to hear it.” The man looked relieved. “Will you go and find help?”

_::I can do better than that.::_

“What?”

_::Give me a few minutes. Be right back.::_

The fox ran around the dilapidated remains of what must once have been a watchtower until he came to stand before a small door.  He looked around and strained his ears.  No signs of humans nearby and no sounds other than what was expected during a summer night.  Crickets chirping, some restless birds practising their tunes, nothing that required his immediate attention, and so he sat down on his haunches, closed his eyes and concentrated.  He shook his head to clear off the short but intense dizziness that always accompanied… this and rose from his crouching position to inspect the metal bars.

His heart sank when he saw the sturdy padlock but his fear was unfounded.  It wasn’t locked after all and so he removed the bars, pushed the door open and peered inside.

“Hello? You there?”

When there was no reply, he stepped away from the door, crouched down once more and resumed the shape of a fox. 

 _::Air’s clear, you can come outside,::_ he tried again and this time, there was a soft _thump_ on the other side of the door and the owl’s large eyes looked at him from behind it.

_::Are you sure? I thought I saw somebody standing there.::_

_::All good. It was… nothing.::_

_::May I have your word on that?::_

_::Upon my honour, fluffy.::_

_::Somebody with a tail as bushy as yours shouldn’t prance about calling others fluffy,::_ the owl haughtily said but ventured around the door and into the open nevertheless.  He swivelled his head as if to make sure he had been told the truth, then turned to look at the fox.

 _::Thank you,::_ he said and this time, there was no trace of arrogance or mockery in his voice. _::I’ve been in there since yesterday and was getting desperate. I am sorry you got hurt and I hope it’s not too bad.::_

_::Ah, just a scratch. And I’m the one who has to say thanks. I wouldn’t have made it out of here by myself.::_

_::Then I guess we’re even.::_

_::I guess we are.::_ He watched the owl take a few steps away from the building, apparently looking for a spot to launch himself up and into the air. _::My name’s Greg, by the way.::_

They locked eyes for a few heartbeats and the fox felt a tingling sensation where the young man had touched him.  He thought he saw the owl’s eyes intensify in colour but it was gone just as quickly.  The bird blinked, then dipped his head in acknowledgment, turned and took to the air with a few powerful beats of his massive wings. _::Good-bye, Greg.::_

 _::Wait!::_ the fox called after him. _::What’s your name?::_

He watched the majestic silhouette disappear and sat down, disappointed.  Out of the corners of his eyes he noticed something floating through the air, brushing his nose on the descent, landing before his paws.  A feather, and a thought, like a breath against his ears.

_::Mike. My name is Mike.::_


	2. Chapter 2

“Dear me, Greg Lestrade, where have you been?”

Susan Young put her hands on her hips and glared at her nephew who shrugged apologetically and pulled his t-shirt back down and over the makeshift bandage covering his wound.

“You know me, there’s no wall I won’t jump over. And sometimes, I get stuck.”

“This looks like you got stuck on a rusty nail, young man. Your uncle needs to see this.”

“Aunt Susan, I don’t think –” He was cut off in mid-sentence.

“You never think, do you? Grow up, please, Greg. And don’t you be giving me that smile of yours. One of these days, your smile just won’t do.”

Greg reached for one of her hands and cocked his head. “I know it won’t. But will it get me one of the scones you’ve made? The smell is making my mouth water.”

His aunt sighed and ruffled his hair. “Of course, love. Just promise you’ll let Thomas treat this properly, yes?”

“I promise.” Another angelic smile, and he was gone.  She looked after him, shaking her head, and asked herself – not for the first time – if her decision all these years ago had been the right one.  And not for the first time, there was only one answer.  Of course it had been.

 

When Thomas Young inspected the cut later that morning, he, too, shook his head.

“It’s not as bad as your aunt made it sound but you were lucky indeed. Stuff like that tends to get ugly more often than not.”

“Does it need stitching?” Greg asked nervously.

“Hm.” Thomas pursed his lips. “No more than two or three stitches. When did you say this happened?”

“Last night.”

“It looks older than that.”

“Last night, I swear. I haven’t been running around with a cut like that for days.”

“Interesting. You’ve always healed quickly but this is a new record.”

“I don’t have time to play sick. I bruise, I heal, I cut myself, I heal. You know it’s always been like that. One of the girls I work with takes forever. She bruises like a peach and even the tiniest scratch stays red for weeks. Do I need to lie down?”

“What?”

“Do I need to lie down so you can stitch me up?”

“Yes, please do.”

“But you won’t put me to sleep?”

“No. A mild local anaesthetic will do.”

“Good to have a doctor in the family.”

“In your case,” Thomas turned around and opened the small cabinet, “good indeed.”

******

The castle ruins came into view quickly and he jumped off his bicycle when he reached the wooden fence.  He carefully chained the bike to one of the sturdy posts and vaulted across the fence, ignoring his wound's protest.  He buried his hands in his pockets and strolled along the narrow path leading towards the remains of the watchtower at the back of the castle, ignoring the still intact front tower.  He wasn’t here for the sights.  He was here for something else. 

 _There_.

An opening in the thick bushes revealed a small barred window.  A young man was squatting before it, carefully examining the bars.  Upon hearing Greg’s steps, he looked up and turned around.

“Hello,” he said politely.

Greg stopped dead in his tracks.  _That voice._   He shook his head, sure he was imagining things.

“Can I help you?” The other man rose from his crouching position and Greg took an involuntary step back.  His gaze dropped to the dark grey tuft of fur the man was holding in his hand.

“I… uh…,” he stammered and immediately gave himself a sharp mental slap. “What are you doing here?”  It came out harsher than intended and the other man narrowed his eyes.

“Who wants to know?”

“Erm… uh…” Stammering again.  Why was that? “I do. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to sound rude. It’s just that I didn’t expect to see anybody here. Not yet, at least. It’s Wednesday, you know.”

“Wednesday.”

“Farmers’ market’s on Wednesday. Major attraction. Tourists flock the market first and then come up here.” He checked his watch. “Well, in about an hour or so.”

“I see.”  The man’s mouth twitched and Greg pulled himself up to stand a bit straighter.

“Let’s do this properly, shall we?” He held out his hand. “I’m Greg.”

“I know.” The moment their palms touched, something electric sizzled through Greg’s veins.  The other had to have felt it, too, because his eyes widened and his pupils dilated slightly. “Pleased to meet you, Greg. I’m Mike, and I believe this is yours?”

Greg stared at the grey tuft that was offered to him.

“I believe it is,” he slowly said and reached for the inside pocket of his denim jacket. “And I guess it’s safe to assume that this is yours?” He held up an intricately patterned feather.

Their eyes met and locked, just as they had the night before, only now Mike’s eyes weren’t orange but blue-and-grey.  But just like then, Greg’s sides tingled with the memory of having been touched and lifted up. 

“We should talk about this,” Mike said and Greg nodded.

“We should. Let’s go somewhere less popular. Or do you have other plans?”

“No, I’m free all day. I wanted to get some writing done but there’s no rush.”

“You’re a writer?”

“No, I’m a student. Where are we going? Should I get my bicycle?”

“Yes, that would be better. Where did you leave it?”

“Over there.” Mike indicated towards a small group of trees.

“Go get it then. Mine’s that way,” he pointed, “and that’s the direction we need to go. I’ll wait here.”

Mike nodded and put the grey tuft into the front pocket of his light jacket, then turned and strolled off to get his bike. Greg followed him with his eyes, admiring the careless elegance in the lanky young man’s walk.  He brought the feather to his lips and smiled.  Not bad at all.

When Mike returned, he put the feather back into his inside pocket and briskly turned to lead the way.

“So, what do you study, then?” he asked after they had walked a few yards.

“I read mathematics in my first year but decided to take up politics, philosophy and economy instead because I don’t see myself as a full-time mathematician. Next year I’ll finally be able to drop philosophy, and then I’ll take up informatics. As a minor,” he added. “Just for fun, really.”

“Just for fun,” Greg repeated. “You don’t need a lot of sleep then?”

“I’m a quick learner.”

“Wow,” Greg said, impressed and embarrassed at the same time. “I barely managed my O-levels.”

“There’s no shame in not pursuing an academic career. What do you do for a living, Greg?”

“I’m a circus clown.”

“What?”

Mike stopped dead in his tracks and stared at Greg.  Greg stopped, too, and felt heat creep up his neck.

“What?” he said defensively. “It’s a job. With a long and honourable tradition.”

“Yes, it certainly is, but Greg, really? A clown?”

“Why not? What’s wrong about making people laugh?”

“It’s… no, you’re right. I apologise.”

Greg glared at him but decided to let it go, and they walked in silence until they reached the low fence.  Greg vaulted across once more and held out his hands.

“Give me your bike.”

Mike obeyed, then swung his long legs over the fence and waited for Greg to unlock his bike before straddling his.

“Where are we going?” he asked again. “Is it far?”

“Nah, maybe an hour or so.” He laughed when Mike made a face. “Problem, ginger?”

“I’m not ginger,” Mike said, a little stiffly.

“Bollocks. Of course you are. Your hair’s all copper in the sun. I like it.”

Mike snorted. “I hate it. It was worse when I was a kid. I’m glad it’s darkened since then, and I hope it will darken some more. You have no idea how many stupid redhead jokes there are.”

“Yeah,” Greg said, grinning. “I can think of one or two. Kids can be shit.”

“Indeed.”

“Let’s go then.”

They rode across narrow lanes and bumpy paths, chatting about this and that and avoiding the subject at hand.  Greg learnt that Mike studied in Oxford and his family lived in Surrey, that his father taught history and his mother was a mathematician, and that he had a younger brother.  And Greg, in return, told Mike about the plane crash that had claimed his parents and his older sister when he was fourteen and that his mother’s sister had taken him in.

“I grew up in a shithole near Bristol and was actually glad to leave. Although, if I’d had a choice, I would have liked to move to Cornwall or maybe Devon, but Aunt Susan’s married to a Scot and so I ended up here. It’s not too bad, really, there’s hardly a nicer playground for a fox than the Trossachs.”

“So do you… mhm… change often?”

“Whenever I can,” Greg blithely said. “How about you?”

“I try but it’s not that easy.”

“Why? Not enough privacy?”

“Yes and no. I have a roommate at Oxford, so there’s that. When I’m at home, I have my own room and it’s a relatively quiet area, but I also have this little brother.”

“Nosy little brat, eh?”

“I wouldn’t say nosy, no. He’s very sharp, and there isn’t an awful lot he doesn’t see.”

“So your family doesn’t know?”

“They most certainly don’t!” Mike sounded horrified at the notion. “Does yours?”

“No, of course not. My uncle’s a doctor and I don’t want to nudge his scientific curiosity. He’s already all over me because I heal so quickly. He thinks it’s odd and I bet he’d like to poke around. He’s not a bad person or a mad scientist,” he hastened to add, “but he’s fascinated with everything that’s outside his medical books and journals.”

“He must never meet my brother,” Mike said with a lopsided grin. “They’d be no good for each other.”

They fell silent once more and Greg stole a sideways glance at Mike who looked straight ahead, lost in his thoughts.  Seen in profile, he had an arrogant beak of a nose, but his mouth was straight and generous and looked as if it liked to laugh which softened the nose’s arrogance, and now that they rode along a more shadowy path, his hair had lost all traces of ginger and indeed appeared brownish rather than copper.  Greg suppressed a sigh.  Shame, that.  There was a faint dusting of freckles across forehead and nose and Greg briefly wondered if there were freckles on his arms and shoulders, too.  He shook his head.  Best not go there.

The path took a sharp turn and Greg signalled for them to stop.

“Here we are.” He jumped off his bike and bowed with a flourishing gesture. “How about this?”

A small lake had come into view, blue as the sky above and framed by all shades of green and pink and yellow.  Sunlight danced across the surface, making it gleam and turning the tiny ripples into silvery highlights.  The water’s gentle murmuring called out to them with a soft and hypnotic voice, and it felt as if the world had somehow stopped turning.  It was quiet, and it was peaceful. 

Mike shielded his eyes.

“This is lovely,” he said in a hushed voice.

“It is,” Greg replied. “And chances are good nobody will bother us here.”

“Except for the owners of that transporter over there.” Mike pointed to where a white vehicle was parked in the shadow of the trees.

“That’s mine. My campervan.”

“Campervan?”

“Well, it’s actually a Volkswagen transporter but I converted it into a campervan with the help from one of the boys.”

“Another clown?”

“No, stage-hand and mechanic.” Greg scowled at Mike. “Don’t be like that.”

“Like what?”

“So… looking down on me.”

“I’m not looking down on you.”

“You sure sound like it.”

“I’m sorry, Greg. I didn’t mean to.”

Greg huffed, leant his bike against a tree and walked over to the transporter, patting its flat nose.

“Erwin, meet Mike. Mike, this is Erwin.”

Mike got off his bike, leant it against Greg’s and came closer.

“Erwin?” There was laughter in his voice.

“Well, it’s a German car and therefore has a German name.”

“I see. Of course.”

“Want to take a look?”

“By all means.”

Greg shot him a sharp glance but Mike looked genuinely interested, so he fumbled in his pockets for the car keys and unlocked Erwin’s door.  Mike peered inside.

“Not bad,” he said approvingly. “It’s a lot more comfortable than I thought. Tidier, too.”

“Really?”

“Yes.”

Greg beamed with pride. “It’s where I sleep when I’m on the road. It has a small refrigerator, a gas cook top, a gas oven, there’s pots and pans and cutlery and some crockery,” he pointed, “and the sofa pulls out to a bed big enough for two.” He flashed Mike a grin. “Definitely big enough for two.”

“Thanks. No need to elaborate. I get it.”

“I’m not sure you do.”

He turned, stretched and clapped his hands together.

“What do we do now? Do you want to change and go play? Or is it too bright for your owl eyes?”

“No, it’s perfectly fine. Owls aren’t strictly nocturnal.” He looked around dubiously. “Do you think it’s safe to change here?”

“’Course it is,” Greg blithely said. “It’s one of my favourite spots. I always leave Erwin’s door open by a crack so when I come back, I can change and sneak back inside to get dressed without anyone seeing a naked madman running around.”

Mike still looked a bit sceptical, but after a brief internal struggle he shrugged.

“Why not. Let’s change.”

“Good!” Greg climbed into the van, shrugged out of his jacket and started pulling his t-shirt up, but stopped himself to look at Mike. “Uhm, do you want to change first? I’ll turn around, too, so you have some privacy.”

“Nonsense. You don’t share a room and remain squeamish about nakedness. You go ahead, I’ll take care of Erwin’s door.”

Greg stripped quickly with his back to Mike.  A sharp hiss made him turn around.

“What is it?”

“You’re wounded. Can you change like that?”

“Oh, that.” Greg made a dismissive gesture and removed the chain he was wearing around his neck.  A golden ring dangled from it, and he placed it carefully on the small wooden table next to his sofa. “Let me take the bandage off and see how bad it is.”

He fumbled with the wound’s dressing, then yanked at it with an impatient noise and cursed when the tape came off with a vicious sound.  Mike winced sympathetically.

“I can’t really see it. Would you have a look? Is it very bad?”

Mike stepped closer and inspected the cut.

“It looks almost healed,” he said, amazed. “One of the stitches has already come off.”

He traced the cut with a finger, and again, the physical contact made something inside Greg sizzle.  He felt his body respond in a most unwelcome manner and hastily crouched down to change.  He concentrated, waited for the dizziness to ebb and jumped out of the van.

_::Well?::_

Mike looked down at him and smiled.

“Patience is not your biggest virtue, I take it.”

_::Bah. Patience is overrated. Get into your wings. I want to pull your tailfeathers.::_

“I should like to see you try.”

Mike removed his jacket and shed his clothes.  The fox watched with detached interest and barked impatiently when Mike folded his shirt and trousers and put them on the couch with exaggerated care.

_::In your own time, fluffy.::_

Mike raised an arrogant eyebrow, climbed out of the van and shut the door with a bang.

 _::What the… you idiot!::_ the fox barked angrily, but Mike let the car keys dangle from his hand.

“Do you think it’s a smart idea to leave the car open with the keys inside?” He squatted down to peer underneath the car, then placed the keys somewhere by the front tyre. “The inside of the rim’s a good spot.”

The air around him whirred and large orange eyes stared at the fox.

_::Happy, bushy tails?::_

The fox lowered his upper body, tail swooshing across the ground, ready to pounce.  The owl gave him a haughty look and launched himself up in the air.

_::Catch me if you can!::_

The fox jumped up as if propelled by a spring, but although the owl’s tempo was not that of a hawk, he was already out of reach.

Greg barked excitedly and dashed after Mike, his strong legs picking up speed.  Mike flew in the direction of the lake.

 _::You’re cheating! That’s not fair!::_ Greg yelled when he realised what Mike was about to do.

Mike laughed and circled above the lake.

_::Fair wasn’t specified in the rules.::_

_::You feathered shit!::_

The fox stopped by the water’s edge and screeched his annoyance at the owl who replied with some screeching of his own.  With a frustrated grunt, Greg jumped on the small jetty and ran to its end where he stopped, barking some more.  Mike swooped down at him and touched his wingtips to the fox’ large ears.  Greg jumped up and came back down at an angle that made him lose balance, and he fell into the lake with a splash and a yelp.

Muttering obscenities about cheating birds and orange-eyed traitors, he dog-paddled to the shore where he shook himself vigorously.  Out of the corner of his eye he saw Mike land beside him, and he shook himself some more, Mike’s indignant shriek music to his ears.

 _::Watch it, you oaf,::_ Mike snapped and stepped out of the danger zone.

 _::Oh, fluffy doesn’t enjoy getting wet? Shame.::_ He finished shaking and flopped down. _::The water’s warmer than I thought. Too bad owls can’t swim.::_

 _::We can if we must.::_ Mike fluffed his feathers. _::It’s not our first choice, obviously.::_

 _::Obviously.::_ Greg stretched and yawned.

Mike cocked his head at an impossible angle, as if positioning a particularly difficult thought, and finally asked, _::Since when have you been, uhm, doing… this?::_

 _::Since my fifteenth birthday,::_ Greg replied without hesitation and Mike clicked his beak in surprise.

_::Me too.::_

_::Hm,::_ Greg hummed. _::I remember dreaming about foxes a lot before my birthday, and about running around in the woods.::_

 _::The dreams started about a month before my birthday,::_ Mike confirmed. _::I dreamt about being able to fly, and I developed a sudden interest in owls. I had never really thought about owls before.::_

_::Nor me about foxes. I always thought wolves were cool, but foxes?::_

_::Did you notice anything else?::_

_::Like what?::_

_::Physical changes. My night vision increased, and considerably so. As did my hearing.::_

_::Oh that. Yeah, I developed a really strong sense of smell and my hearing must have multiplied tenfold or something.::_

_::I had the most horrible headaches in the beginning.::_

_::So did I, but it got better over the following months.::_

_::I’ve learnt to filter the sensations –::_

_::– block the noises and the smells –::_

_::– and adjust.::_

They looked at each other.

 _::Have you ever heard of anything like this?::_ Greg asked. _::Outside of films and cheap horror stories?::_

 _::No. I tried to research the subject but didn’t get very far. Every single lead that looked promising took me to a dead end. Classified.::_ He made a clucking sound. _::I hate not being granted access to data.::_

Greg jumped up. _::Care to go for a swim?::_ he suggested. _::While the sun is still out?::_

Mike looked up to the sky where clouds had begun to gather.  They were still white and harmless, but Scottish summers were unpredictable at best, and chances were good for a spell of heavy rain to remind them of just that.

 _::I didn’t bring my trunks,::_ he said, a little primly.

 _::Neither did I,::_ Greg cheerfully replied. _::Don’t be silly. What do you think is gonna happen?::_

_::What if somebody comes by?::_

_::And? They’ll see two blokes swim in a lake. Nobody will see we’re not decent. The water’s clear but not that clear.::_

_::Is it safe?::_

_::No it isn’t. Haven’t you heard? There's Kelpies here.::_ He flicked his ears in canine amusement. _::Of course it’s safe. I come here a lot, didn’t I tell you?::_

_::Of course. I forget. You’re half local. Alright then, lead the way, bushy tails.::_

_::Good lad.::_

Greg turned and ran back to the jetty.  He changed when he reached the wooden planks, took a running start and somersaulted into the lake.

“Whoa!” he shouted. “It’s colder without the fur but it’s okay. Come on, Mike, don’t be such a girl!”

He watched Mike change and come to a standing position.  Mike peered down as if to calculate the lake’s depth, raised his arms high above his head and got on his toes.  For a moment he just stood there, and Greg almost forgot to paddle.  Mike was rangy, yes, but there was nothing gangly or awkward about him.  Long arms and legs, broad shoulders and slim hips, slender rather than skinny. _‘Add some muscle and he will be gorgeous,’_ Greg thought. _‘As graceful as a dancer.’_   And all well in proportion, too.  His own body agreed most enthusiastically and he put more effort into his water-treading in the hope of redirecting some of that blood.

Mike pushed himself off the edge and dove headfirst into the water at a perfect angle.  Greg saw his pale shape shoot towards him and surface at arm’s length.

“It’s cold,” Mike panted, “but it’s beautiful.”

He let himself be carried by the water, then moved away with a few powerful breaststrokes.

“Come on then,” he called over his shoulder. “Let’s see if you’re better at catching me now!”

“What, you change into a fish, too?” Greg called back and flung himself into his best crawl, and soon they were swimming side by side.  Suddenly Mike stopped, took a deep breath and dove down.  Greg felt the water swirl when he snaked around him, like a creature from an old saga, and he forgot all about rainclouds and pretty much everything else as he watched the slow, lazy movements of Mike’s long limbs.  He reached for him and hauled him up by his shoulders.  For a moment, they hovered opposite each other, treading water, then Mike reached out and brushed one of Greg’s strands of hair out of his face, unruly even when wet.  The sunlight danced across the water and Greg noticed that Mike’s shoulders were indeed dusted with freckles, just as he had fantasized.  He bit his lips and tried to ignore his blood roaring through his veins, but when Mike’s eyes dropped to his lips, dropped lower, Greg became painfully aware than the water was really very clear, and heat crept up his neck.  Mike raised his eyes and searched Greg’s face.  His expression was inscrutable.

Greg cleared his throat and indicated towards the shore.

“Back to the car? I could make some tea, and I have eggs and toast, too.”

“Sounds good,” Mike agreed and without a word turned around and started crawling towards the jetty.  He heaved himself up and waited for Greg to catch up with him.  Only when Greg stood on the wooden planks before him did he change back into an owl and pushed himself up in the air, heading for the campervan.  The fox followed him, running from the raindrops that started falling and towards his trusted shelter.

The owl perched on Erwin’s roof when he arrived.

 _::Is it safe to change?::_ he asked, and Mike swivelled his head around.

 _::All clear,::_ he confirmed, and Greg changed.  He blindly fumbled for the car keys that Mike had placed on the inside rim and breathed with relief when his hand closed around them.  With clammy fingers he opened the door and slipped inside.

“Come down here, Mike, you can change inside,” he called. “Don’t get any wetter!”

He wrapped his t-shirt around his arm and leant out of the sliding door, arm outstretched.

“Jump!” he commanded, and Mike obeyed.  Greg pulled him inside and closed the door.  The moment Mike’s feet touched the floor, he changed but remained huddled where he was.

“Bloody hell, I am freezing,” he complained.  Greg took the t-shirt from his arm and stretched to open a small hatch in the car’s roof.

“Storage,” he explained, then pulled up a stool, stepped up and fished for something.  “Ah, here.”

A woollen blanket landed on Mike who gratefully wrapped it around himself and sat down on the sofa with a sigh.

“Tea?” Greg offered, stepping into his boxers and pulling the t-shirt over his head.

“Yes, please,” Mike said, and Greg started rummaging around his tiny kitchen area.  He filled his water kettle with water from a tank that sat on a sturdy construction, got the cook top going and produced two mugs and an assortment of tea bags.  He picked one and offered the plastic box to Mike who chose an Assam blend.

When the water was boiling, he filled the mugs and turned to place them on his small table.  Mike had pulled his legs up, crossed arms resting on his knees, looking pensively at Greg who laughed.

“Do you always perch like that, even when you’re out of your feathers?”

Mike immediately put his legs down and rubbed the back of his neck self-consciously. “Habit. I never know where to put my legs.”

“But why? Are you trying to make yourself smaller?”

“I guess, in a way.” The tips of Mike’s ears turned pink which Greg found oddly endearing.

“Don’t,” he said in a firm voice. “Never make yourself smaller. Tall lad like you. Nothing to hide, and I mean _nothing_.”

He put extra emphasis on the last word and Mike’s ears turned bright red.

“No need to blush. If you only ever looked up from your books, you’d find the Oxford girls queuing up to discuss their homework with you.”

“I doubt it. And I don’t… have time for girls.”

The tiny pause was not lost on Greg who shot him a sharp glance.

“I see,” he said.

Mike stared straight ahead and pulled the blanket a little tighter around him.

“Mike? Will you look at me? Please?”

Very slowly, Mike turned his head but didn’t meet Greg’s eyes.

“There’s no shame in being a late bloomer,” Greg said in a gentle voice. “Sometimes it’s just not right, and it takes a lot of strength to acknowledge it.”

“Oh, it’s not that. It’s not that I haven’t, uhm, been with a girl yet,” Mike started plucking at a loose thread.

“But?”

“I, well –,” the loose thread came off and Mike rolled it into a little knot between his fingers. “Like you said, it wasn’t… right.” It came out as a whisper, barely audible over the rain drumming against the car’s roof, but Mike finally raised his eyes to meet Greg’s.

“I see,” Greg said again, and this time, he did see, or rather: permitted himself to see.  Saw the blush that crept up Mike’s neck, saw his eyes turn dark, saw him pull his lower lip between his teeth, and saw his gaze drop to Greg’s mouth. 

For a few heartbeats, neither of them spoke.  Greg held his breath.  Mike turned his head away and reached for his tea mug with a hand that wasn’t quite steady, and the spell seemed broken.  Greg exhaled, very slowly, pushed the mug out of the way and covered Mike’s hand with his.  Mike sat very still.  Just when Greg thought he had made a gigantic mistake, Mike’s hand turned in his and he twined his fingers with Greg’s. 

No words were needed.  Their lips met, and Greg’s whole body tingled from the contact.  He cupped Mike’s face with his hands to deepen the kiss, and Mike’s lips parted invitingly.  What started as a careful exploration quickly turned into something more heated and soon had them rubbing frantically against each other in a mad tangle of arms and legs, hands searching and finding and grabbing.  Mike had not put his clothes back on after changing and Greg intended to take full advantage of that, but much to his delight, Mike reached for the hem of Greg's t-shirt, yanked it over his head and pushed his boxers down with an impatience that matched Greg’s, eager to explore.  Greg laughed and twisted to remove the annoying piece of clothing, only to find that his sofa was too small for two grown men and they landed on the floor with a _thump_.  Mike groaned when his shoulder connected with the table and only Greg’s lightning quick reflexes saved the tea mugs from tumbling over and spilling their still steaming contents over naked skin.

“Damn!” Greg jumped up, laughing. “Move over, Mike, we need to pull out the bed.”

Mike scrambled to his feet, picked the woollen blanket up and pushed the table out of the way.

“Anything I can do?” he offered.

“Yeah, lock the doors and close the curtains. It’s still raining and I doubt there’ll be lots of folks wandering about, but –” his eyes travelled shamelessly along Mike’s tall frame, “I intend to take my time with you and I don’t want an audience for that.” He pointed at a floral atrocity behind the driver’s seat. “And don’t forget that one.”

Pulling out the bed and covering it with a sheet was a matter of moments and Greg flopped down on it, beckoning to Mike with a crooked finger.  “Come here, you,” he said with a grin and Mike hurried to obey.

The bed was indeed big enough for two, and soon Mike was writhing in Greg’s arms, begging for a release that was refused to him with devilish finesse.  The degree to which Mike responded to his touches stunned Greg to no small extent, and he brought him to the brink again and again, only to pull away at the last moment, leaving Mike panting and desperate and cursing.  He kissed and nibbled and licked his way across warm, pale skin that was freckled everywhere – well, almost everywhere and that’s where he finally focussed his attention, finally taking pity.  Mike came apart with a shout, and he came apart beautifully, exploding all over Greg’s hands, his body taut as a bowstring. 

Greg watched him shiver through the aftershocks and traced the creamy white lines with his fingers.

“Say, Mike, have you been saving yourself? That was quite impressive.”

Mike chuckled weakly in reply and covered his face with his forearms.

“I’m sorry,” he managed, and Greg pulled his arms down and off his face.

“What for? That was hot as hell. I almost came just from looking at you. By the way,” he glanced down his own body, then gave Mike a pointed look. “Care to lend a hand here?”

It turned out that Mike was every inch the quick learner he had claimed to be, and he put his newfound knowledge to devastating use.  Greg was quickly reduced to incoherencies, pressing his fists to his mouth in a fruitless attempt not to become too noisy, and his muffled cries and barely suppressed moans brought a smug smile to Mike’s face.  Strong hands roamed his body, putting long fingers to good use, and Mike’s clever tongue made Greg sob with lust.  He came just as violently as Mike had despite the fact that he had most definitely not been saving himself. 

When his heartbeat had slowed down, he pulled Mike up and kissed him, lingering, savouring every moment.

“I’m so glad we met,” he whispered.

“So am I,” Mike whispered back.

“You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

“I am not,” Mike protested, ears turning pink again.

“Shut up. Of course you are. You have better skin than any girl, your freckles are delicious, I love that fluttering thing you do with your lashes, and your cock, aaahh –,” he gently stroked across it with his knuckles and laughed softly when it twitched with renewed interest. “Definitely a thing of beauty.”

He kissed the pulsing hollow of Mike’s throat and watched him stretch languorously, like a giant cat.

“I strongly refuse having my skin compared to that of a girl’s,” Mike said. “Next you’ll be saying I smell nice.”

“But you do. But not like a girl.” He brought his nose to Mike’s neck and sniffed. “Not like a girl at all.”  Mike laughed and squirmed out of the way.

“So, do you like it? Being with girls?” he asked after a while.

Greg rubbed his face against Mike’s chest. “It’s alright. It can be quite nice, actually, if the girl’s a good one.”

“A good one?”

“You know, fun and not prissy. A good mate.”

“Mhm.”

“What? You didn’t like it? Not a bit?”

“Not all that much,” Mike confessed. “And I was mortally afraid about possible consequences.”

“Ah, but there’s protection against that,” Greg pointed out. “And don’t you be giving me lame excuses. Yeah, pulling a condom on takes some of the fun away, but what’s a few seconds of discomfort in comparison to a child you don’t want?”

“I know that. But I was still uncomfortable.”

“And now?”

“I am not uncomfortable now. Far from it.”  He smiled, and Greg immediately slid up to kiss that smile.

“Do you need to be anywhere tonight?” he finally asked and Mike cocked an inquisitive eyebrow.

“I don’t.”

“Will anybody miss you?”

“Not before tomorrow evening. One of my father’s friends lets me use his holiday flat, and I’m there all by myself.”

“Taking time off from your roommate?”

“And my little brother,” Mike said, grinning. “But I must catch the night train back south tomorrow. Why are you asking?”

“Can’t you guess?” Greg wiggled his eyebrows and while Mike tried his best to appear innocent, he couldn’t keep a straight face for very long, and it was settled.

 

The rest of the afternoon was spent in blissful ignorance of the sun that came out again.  The trees provided enough shade to prevent the small campervan from getting too hot, but being sweaty only added to the sensuality of a game that seemed invented just for them, their bodies undulating and writhing with and around each other, strong hands grabbing on to freckled shoulders, long fingers burying themselves in a shock of unruly hair, lips and tongues exploring, kissing, sucking, licking, teasing.  The van’s small cabin reeked of sweat and musk and sex, and they tore away from each other only to open two windows.

When they had to grudgingly acknowledge that something like ‘spent’ actually existed and “oh God, that smell”, they agreed to leave the van after all.  Taking a sneak peek to check if the air was clear, they changed and made for the lake once more, key safely deposited in its hiding place.  The odds were in their favour and not a single wanderer had chosen the scenic route that would lead him towards the little lake, and they flung themselves into the water, splashing and laughing.  Mike demonstrated more of his high diving abilities and admitted to having joined the university’s swimming team, and Greg showed off some of his clown acrobatics.  There was fun to be had in the lake as well, but their growling stomachs eventually reminded them of other bodily needs, and they reluctantly changed into their clothes and rode their bikes to the nearest village where a well-frequented pub offered good food at reasonable prices.  Greg was no stranger to the pub owner’s wife and charmed her into assembling a picnic basket for himself and his new friend. 

“Why did you leave school after O-levels?” Mike asked on the way home.

Greg shrugged. “I hated school. I hated my teachers. Or rather, my science teacher. ‘Greg’ry’,” he said in a nasal voice, “‘there’s a reason you have hands like a butcher. You’re butchering the beauty of chemistry.’ God, I despised him. Made me hate the sound of my own name.”  He huffed, still hurt after all the years.

“What an idiot,” Mike said with disgust. “He’s the one who should go and find something to slaughter, something other than his students. And you don’t have hands like a butcher,” he added.

“Yes I do. Look at them,” he held one hand up. “As elegant as frying pan. Especially in comparison to yours.”

“Nonsense. Remember telling me not to make myself smaller? Goes for you, too. You are not stupid, and your hands are perfectly fine.”

He reached out and took Greg’s hand into his own. “I love your hands,” he said in a firm voice. “They’re strong, and they do wonderful things. And I quite like the sound of your name.”

Greg squeezed his hand. “Thanks.” A sigh. “I was named after my Grandpa, and I never thought it was an odd name until Mr Franklin started to make fun of it.”

“It is not an odd name. You have no idea.”

“Well, I guess Michael's never made you a laughing stock.”

“Mike is not short for Michael.” He let go of Greg’s hand when he hit a bumpy patch. “I’ll tell you if you promise not to laugh.”

“I won’t laugh,” Greg promised.

“Mike is short for Mycroft.”

Greg did not laugh.  He snorted.  “Mycroft? What kind of a name is that? I don’t think I’ve ever heard that one before.”

“Told you. Worse than Gregory, right? I think my parents invented it.”

“Mycroft. Mike. Mycroft.” Greg tried both versions. “You know what? I like it. It suits you. Mycroft.” He nodded. “Yep, suits you. Mycroft it is. If you don’t mind,” he added.

Mycroft shot him a sinister look. “Are you making fun of me, Gregory?”

“No, I’m not. Sorry for laughing. But I do like the sound of your name. It’s unusual. Just like you.”

“Fine. You may call me Mycroft if that is your wish.”

“It is my wish.” He flashed him a mischievous grin. “And it is my most heartfelt wish that you take me to bed again, Mycroft.”

“Oh, I will, Gregory. Make no mistake about that.”

“It’s Greg, please. I’d much prefer it if you called me Greg.”

“Alright. Greg.”

They rode in silence for a while, then Mycroft asked, “Have you always wanted to become a circus clown?”

“Seriously?” He looked at Mycroft. “My company must never find out, but I’ve always wanted to be a copper.”

“A policeman?” Mycroft looked at him, surprised. “And why didn’t you?”

“With my shitty marks? They would never accept me.”

“I don’t think an academic degree is a prerequisite when joining the police force. You’re an intelligent man, Greg, you could work your way up the ranks.”

“You really think so?”

“I really think so,” Mycroft confirmed. “Where would you like to work if you had to pick a place?”

“New Scotland Yard.” It was delivered quick as a shot. “London’s Metropolitan police. Man, that would be something.”

“Why don’t you give it a try?”

“They’d never take me.”

“Won’t hurt to try. And if you think your grades are a problem, why don’t you go to evening school and take your A-levels?”

“I’m not sure,” Greg said, doubt in his voice. “I really don’t think I’m smart enough.”

“Please.” Mycroft made a derisive noise. “I could name at least a dozen people who made their A-levels on a lot less intelligence.”

“Evening school, huh.”

“With other grown-ups. Another Trevor experience is highly unlikely as you will be paying for school. In other words, you’ll be paying your teachers. I’m sure they’d think twice before making fun of their students.”

“Mhm.” Greg worried his lower lip. “I need to think about this.”

“Please do. Yes, circus clown is a profession with a tradition, but just think of what you could do as a policeman.”

They reached the campervan and chained their bicycles to the car’s sturdy bumper-bar.   Greg took their picnic basket from his bike’s rack, unlocked the sliding door and hauled Mycroft in by the lapels of his jacket.

“Inside, Mycroft. I have a craving for a very special kind of sweet.”

Mycroft didn’t object to that and soon good old Erwin was rocking to their interpretation of what a proper dessert should be.

******

“How far to your holiday flat?” Greg asked the next afternoon, lazily playing with a strand of Mycroft’s hair.

“About two hours by bike,” came the absent-minded reply.

“What? Do you want me to take you there?”

“No,” Mycroft turned his head to look at Greg. “It’s alright. It will help me clear my head.”

“Remove all memories of impurity from your academic brain?”

“Don’t be daft, Greg. There’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

“Says you.”

“Says I.”

“There’s others who might respectfully disagree. Disrespectfully, too.”

Mycroft harrumphed to that. “I don’t care about others. But I’d still prefer to ride my bike.”

“Do you think you can ride that distance?”

“Why not?”

“Because your delightful bottom might be a bit, uhm, sore?”

“Oh.” Mycroft blushed furiously. “I didn’t think of that.”

“See? I’ll drive you.”

“Thanks, Greg, but I will take my bike.”

“You’re a stubborn one, right?”

“I have my moments.”

 

When it was time to say good-bye, Mycroft pulled Greg into a fierce embrace and held him as if he never wanted to let him go.  Greg held him just as tightly, blinking rapidly.  When they let go, Mycroft’s eyes were suspiciously bright but he smiled at Greg.

“Thank you. For everything.”

Greg merely nodded, not trusting his voice.  He watched as Mycroft straddled his bike and made for the narrow road, and ran after him.

“Wait!” he shouted.  Mycroft stopped and turned to look at Greg.

“Yes?”

“I want to give you something so you won’t forget me.”

“I’ll never forget you, Greg,” Mycroft softly said.

“Still.” Greg fumbled for the chain he was wearing and pulled it over his head. “Here,” he said. “It’s my Grandpa’s wedding band and I always figured I’d give it to a very special person.”

Mycroft took it. “Are you sure?”

Greg nodded emphatically. “Absolutely.”

Mycroft removed the ring from the chain and tried it on.  It was a perfect fit for his right ring finger.

“Thank you.”

Then he was gone, and Greg started cleaning up his car.

 

******

 

For the first time since secondary school, Mycroft returned from his holidays with his thesis only half written.  Of course he still finished it in time, and of course he received stellar marks for it.

But Mycroft Holmes returned to Oxford a changed man.

 

Greg respectfully declined his company’s offer to renew his engagement for the following.  Instead, he took a part-time job and signed up for evening school to take his A-levels.

For the first time in his life, Greg Lestrade was setting career objectives.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- A 'Kelpie' is a mythical Scottish water horse creature.  
> \- I borrowed two things from Rupert Graves' actual biography. One's not so important, but the other one's too good to pass up. Spotted it?


	3. Chapter 3

**1988**

“Well done, Greg, very well done indeed!” Thomas studied the sheet his nephew had slid across the table.  Patrick, his eldest, leaned over his father’s shoulder to steal a glance.

“Look at that. All B’s and C’s. Not bad.”

Greg crossed his hands behind his head. “Who would have thought, eh? Guess that finally makes me a respectable member of society.”

“Well,” Patrick grinned, “I wouldn’t say respectable. But it’s a start.” He ducked when a balled-up napkin flew his way.

“Boys, please,” Susan chided, but her smile ruined the effect. “I am so proud of you, Greg. Passed your A-levels! Imagine that. And with such good grades, too! I wish your parents could have seen this. Helen would be over the moon.”

For a moment, neither of them said a word.  Then Thomas cleared his throat. “Let’s celebrate. This calls for a night out at the pub. What do you say?”

“Sounds good,” Patrick and Greg said in unison, and Greg added, “My treat.”

“You most certainly won’t,” his uncle protested but Greg held up a hand.

“I most certainly will. Listen, you let me stay for another two years, well, almost three years –” he grinned sheepishly, referring to his initial difficulties at evening school, “and I owe you. I just want to say thank you. I can do that, can’t I?”

“That is very sweet of you, and we accept,” Susan said in a firm voice, shooting her husband a stern look. “Should I ring them up and make a reservation for Friday?”

“Yeah, Friday’s good.” Greg nodded. “Uncle Thomas?”

“Friday’s good,” Thomas confirmed.

“Will Rhon come, too?” Greg looked at Patrick who shrugged.

“No idea. If you manage to unglue her from the phone for a sec, you may possibly get a reply. Maybe even a favourable one if you give her one of your smiles.” The latter was delivered with a hint of disapproval and Greg immediately spread his hands in a gesture of defence.

“I didn’t do anything, and you know that.” His younger cousin had developed a teenage crush on him, much to her brother’s dislike. “I’m not encouraging her. At all.”

“I’m sure it’s just a phase,” Susan cut in, correctly interpreting her husband’s frown.  Thomas did not appreciate the idea of his little girl growing up and developing interests away from doll houses and horse-riding. “Greg doesn’t behave in any way that’s inappropriate. It’s not his fault he’s such a pretty boy.”

“Aunt Susan!” Greg protested. “I’m twenty-five. Not exactly a boy anymore.”

His aunt tousled his hair before he could duck away.  It was beginning to annoy him, this fascination with his wild hair, and he made a mental note to pay the hairdresser a visit.  ‘Pretty boy’ indeed.  His good looks had been helpful in and out of the circus ring but being ‘pretty’ would not help him get where he wanted to be.

“Can’t you talk to Rhon?” he turned to his aunt for help. “I’d like her to come with us. I have something to tell you. All of you.”

“Oh?” Susan looked at him sharply but he merely lifted an eyebrow.

“It’s still a secret,” he stage-whispered and she sighed.

“Alright, I will try and speak to my teenage daughter. Your secret better be worth it.”

“Oh but it is. If anything, it will restore the family peace.”

“You have accepted an engagement in Las Vegas,” Patrick suggested but Greg shook his head, pressing his lips together. “The Chinese National Circus? Or will you join the Flying Romanoffs in Moscow?”

Greg kept shaking his head, laughing. “Nope. All wrong. My clowning days are over.”

“Found yourself a respectable job then?” Patrick wouldn’t give up.

“Not another word.” With that, he took a flourishing bow and left the room.  Let his family chew on that for a while.  He was itching to change and run. 

 

It was still warm but autumn was on its way.  The air had a different quality to it as did the wind that ruffled his fur as he sat down on the small jetty, tail curled neatly around himself.  His large ears twitched and he watched the waves ripple and dance, making splashing sounds against the wooden stilts.  Soon the trees surrounding the lake would turn into all shades of red and golden, and he wouldn’t be here to see it.  He lay down, put his snout on his forearms and sighed.  He would miss this, his favourite spot.  His little loch, and the beautiful landscape it was embedded in.  The colours.  The smells.  The… memories. 

 _Wonder what Mycroft is doing._  

Did he sometimes look out of the window of his Oxford room and think of him, as he thought of Mycroft?  Had he found somebody he could change with?  Had he found anybody who could change at all?  Greg hadn’t.  Well, that was not precisely true.  He had met an old woman, had stumbled across her quite by accident as she was in the process of changing into a rabbit, but after she had sat frozen to the spot for a few seconds, she had ran off into the shrubbery and out of his sight before he could even call after her. 

The distant hoot of an owl made him raise his head, straining his ears.  No, wrong bird.  He wouldn’t forget the sound of Mycroft’s voice.  Not of his distinct Owl voice, and certainly not of his human voice that had felt like velvet in his ears, both his Fox ears and his human ears.  He remembered each nuance – haughty when Greg had said something especially silly, calm and self-confident whenever the subject of studies or anything intellectual had come up, playful when challenging him… but his favourite nuance was the breathless begging and pleading, the sighs and soft moans.  If he had to choose one acoustic memory to stay with him for the rest of his life, it would have to be the sound of Mycroft breathing his name.  _Gregory_.  It had been the first time his name had sounded like a caress.

He stood up and shook himself.  No use dwelling in the past.  He hadn’t heard from Mycroft in all of this time, and how could he?  They hadn’t even exchanged family names and although Greg had briefly toyed with the idea of driving all the way down to Oxford – somebody at the university would certainly remember a student with such an unusual name –, he had decided against it, not sure if such an intrusion would have been welcome.

He cast another glance across the loch, then turned around and ran back to where good old Erwin stood waiting for him.

******

Mycroft regarded the short bespectacled man in front of him with a cool gaze.

“I am absolutely sure about this, Professor Richmond,” he said. “I’ve been offered to continue my studies at the University of Hong Kong and it’s a chance I would not want to miss.”

“But Holmes, Hong Kong will soon be a part of the Republic of China,” Richmond said, with a touch of desperation in his voice.

“With all due respect, sir, we’re talking 1997 while we’re still in 1988. I see absolutely no reason why I should refuse such an offer.”

“Your future lies with Oxford, don’t you see? You could build a glorious career for yourself.”

Mycroft stubbornly lifted his chin and looked down at the dean from his superior height. “I am not entirely certain whether a career that’s been built on viewing the world from the confinement of a study can ever truly be called glorious.”

The dean opened his mouth and closed it again.  The conversation had been going on for well over thirty minutes and nothing he had said had achieved its goal.  He looked at the young man standing before him and sighed.

“Very well, Holmes, if that is what you want…” He paused and sighed again. “And your parents approve of that plan of yours?”

“I am twenty-two, sir. I don’t need my parents’ approval. Besides, you may be aware that my father studied Japanese history and language at Kyoto University.”

“And look at where he is now,” Richmond pointed out and Mycroft raised his chin a bit more.

“Unless there has been a profound misunderstanding I believe it isn’t my father’s life choices that are under discussion but mine.”

“Have it your way,” the dean said with an air of irritated frustration and resumed his seat behind his desk. “You will grant me permission to express my regrets about seeing you leave.”

“And I thank you for your concern, Professor Richmond,” Mycroft politely said. “But my mind is made up.”

When he left the dean’s office ten minutes later with two sets of signed papers in his hands, he gave a curt nod to the man who had been patiently waiting outside.

“I have the requested signatures, sir.” He held out one set and the man rose, smoothed a waistcoat that didn’t need smoothing and accepted the sheets. “Pleased to hear it, Mr Holmes.” He cast a glance over the documents, then folded them and put them into his inside pockets. “Welcome on board.” He extended his hand.

“Thank you.” Mycroft took the offered hand with a firm clasp. “I look forward to working with you.”

“Likewise.” They headed for the exit, Mycroft leading the way along the corridors that had seemed an endless maze to him when he had first entered the building.

“We will start processing the paperwork immediately. You should hear from us within the next three weeks. Will that give you enough time to make all necessary arrangements?”

“Absolutely.”

“In how far have you informed your family?”

“In so far as I will work on my master’s degree at the University of Hong Kong. In addition, I will intensify my studies of information technology.”

“No questions asked?”

“No questions asked,” Mycroft confirmed. “My mother strongly supports an academic education, and my father strongly supports going abroad.”

“To look beyond your own nose?”

“Something of the kind.”

“Not everybody’s parents are that supportive. Consider yourself lucky, Mr Holmes.”

Mycroft made a non-committal noise and chose not to reply.

“Well,” they had reached the entrance to the small parking lot, “enjoy your last weeks at Oxford, Mr Holmes. Hong Kong is nowhere near as peaceful and scenic.”

“I hope not, Mr Robson.”

“Careful what you wish for.” Robson opened the door to his sleek limousine. “Made any plans?”

“Plans?”

“A holiday before you’re off, perhaps?”

“Oh. I was thinking of spending a few days up in Scotland.”

“Got friends there?”

“I wouldn’t say friends.” Mycroft hoped that for once, he would be spared the embarrassment of pink ears. “More of an acquaintance.”

“I see.” Robson gave him a knowing smirk and there it was.  Heat crept up his neck and he grit his teeth.  Robson’s smirk deepened. “Well, give her a proper good-bye then. You’ll be gone for at least two years, and she can’t come and visit.”

“I am aware of that.”

“Make sure to phone in and leave a number where we can reach you while you’re frolicking about in bonny Scotland.”

“Certainly, sir.”

“And drop the sir. It’s Tony from now on.”

“Very well. Tony.”

“See you soon, Mycroft.” Robson got into the car.  Mycroft stepped back and watched him pull out of the narrow parking spot.  As the car vanished out of sight, Mycroft felt a sudden wave of dizziness wash over him and he reached for the parking meter to steady himself.

He had done it.  He had really done it.

 

The Owl sat on his favourite tree in Blenheim Palace Park, overlooking the lake that was pleasantly peaceful at night.  Some frogs croaked in the hope of a late summer love, and the waning moon cast a weak silvery light over the water.  It would soon be autumn, and an indistinct feeling of premature homesickness rose in his chest.  He would miss this park, and this tree. 

A swift movement to his left caught his eye and he swivelled his head.  A red fox stood in a few yards’ distance, large ears flicking back and forth.  Wrong colour, red.  Uninteresting.  Mycroft turned his head to gaze across the lake some more.

Although he had – to a certain extent – caught up on his romantic backlog, he could still felt Greg’s hands on his skin whenever he closed his eyes.  His strong, calloused hands, no doubt roughened by manual labour around the circus ring.  And he remembered his smooth, warm skin and his dark eyes and the feeling of the fox’ soft fur under his hands, and remembered how the overwhelming urge to touch and stroke the grey plushness had swept over him, despite the fox’ stern warning.  There had been something between them, something other than pure physical attraction and it had nothing to do with the infatuation of a brief summer fling, either.  Not one of the lovers he had taken since then had made him feel the way Greg had.  _Greg_.  Did he ever look across that scenic little loch, thinking about their time together, brief though it had been?  Or had he moved on, found a new engagement, breaking hearts wherever he went?  Or had he taken their conversations to heart and left the circus in pursuit of his dream?  _I wonder if he still drives Erwin the campervan._

He had talked his father’s friend into letting him use his holiday flat one last time although he wasn’t sure what he hoped to achieve by going up to Scotland.  They hadn’t exchanged any personal information that would facilitate a search and he had nothing to go by other than the meagre facts that Greg’s uncle was a doctor and Greg was a circus clown.  He didn’t even know the name of the village he lived in.  But his mind was made up.  Before going to Hong Kong he would go to Scotland, if only to revisit the castle ruins or take one last swim in the lake.  Provided the water wasn’t already too cold.

In the distance, a clock struck two.  Time to return before his roommate got back from wherever he was.  Mycroft had politely declined the invitation to join him and had turned a deaf ear to yet another speech about being no fun and a bookworm, mumbling something about an early training session the next day.  The excuse was grudgingly accepted because being on the Oxford swimming team was regarded an honour, and the team’s coach had quite a reputation when it came to the athletes’ discipline.

He pushed himself off the branch and headed back in the direction of the halls of residence, hoping Sean was either sound asleep or still gone.

******

His news had the desired impact and Greg grinned as he looked into the stunned faces of his family. “That’s right. I’m going to be a copper.”

Susan was the first to find her speech again. “So that’s why you went to London.”

“Yes. I had to take a few tests to see whether I’m fit enough to be a policeman.”

“Greg!” Patrick gaped at his cousin. “When did that happen? You? A copper?”

Greg shrugged and reached for his pint. “Can’t be a clown forever.”

“Yeah, but a copper?”

“Stop saying it like it’s something bad.” He smiled at the waitress who had appeared with two plates. “Thanks, love. This one’s for her,” he pointed at Susan, “and that one’s mine.”

“That’s fantastic news!” His uncle reached for his pint, too. “When will you get the results back?”

“I already have them. They arrived in the post on Tuesday. I snatched the letter right out of the postman's hands so nobody could see the sender.” He winked at his aunt who huffed in mock outrage.

“And?” Thomas insisted.

“I’ve been accepted, of course.” He took a swig. “Do you think I’d be telling you about it if I had failed?”

“But Greg, London?” Susan asked, looking not very happy about the prospect of her nephew seeking his fortune in Britain’s capital.

“Come on, Aunt Susan, you never flinched once when I travelled all over the country with the circus. Please don’t say you worry about me.”

“I always worry about you, you silly boy.”

“Were the tests very difficult?” Patrick asked. “What did you have to do?”

“I had to take a written test first. That one was a bit tricky. The fitness test was rather lame, and the medical came back clean. They were a bit off about the clowning thing but since I’ve been a model citizen all of my life,” he raised his glass, “they couldn’t hold it against me. I mean, it’s not like I’ve been selling drugs or anything. I had proper contracts with good companies. Besides, background check’s come back all good and clean, too.”

“What about that tattoo of yours?”

“Neither visible nor offensive.”

“You have a tattoo?” The revelation yanked Rhon out of the brief state of shock Greg’s news had inflicted on her.

“Only a small one.”

“Where is it?”

“Where no-one will ever see it. Unless I give explicit permission.”

The waitress re-appeared with the remaining plates and Rhon waited until she was gone again.

“What is it?”

“What?” Greg pretended not to understand the question.

“Your tattoo. What did you get? Not a clown, I hope.”

“No, not a clown.”

“A skull? Or playing cards?”

“I’m not saying. It’s personal.”

She made a face.  He reached across the table and pulled at one of her chestnut strands.

“Come now, Rhon. Grant me my little secret, eh? I promise I’ll send you a photo of me in uniform.”

“Really?”

“Promise. Now eat. I’m paying, and you’re not throwing my food away.”

She pouted prettily but gave in to the temptation of her chicken tikka masala, shooting her cousin tragic looks from under thick lashes in between bites.

“Where will you stay?” Patrick reached for the pepper. “London’s pretty expensive from what I’ve heard.”

“It is,” Greg confirmed, “and I have no idea yet. Maybe I can find a flat share or something.”

“I have a better idea.” Thomas lowered his fork and pursed his lips. “My uncle Randolph lives in London.”

“That the banker?”

“Exactly. He’s in his seventies now and he’s kept the house after Aunt Vera died. It’s pretty central, I think, Ladbroke Grove or something. North West London.”

Greg whistled. “That sounds expensive.”

“Yeah well, old money plus banker. He’s not exactly stinking rich but he’s well off. He’s in good shape, too, so you don’t have to worry about being expected to look after him. Want me to ring him?”

“Do you think he’d let me stay with him until I’ve found something on my own? I’ve only met him once.”

“I can’t see why not. You’re family. And it won’t exactly be forever, right? I’m sure he has a spare bedroom you could use until you get settled in.”

“That would be great. Tell him I’m good with my hands. If he needs something fixed around the house, I can help.”

“He has a small garden. I’m sure he’d appreciate your help there.”

“No problem. Thanks so much. That’ll make it so much easier.”

“Alright then. I’ll ring him up tomorrow.”

With one less topic to worry about, Greg started chatting cheerfully about the tests he had taken and delivered a spot-on imitation of the police officer who had interviewed him.  He had the sergeant’s thick accent down to a tee which had Rhon in giggles, and the family dinner turned into something that soon had the neighbouring tables join in.  The Youngs and their clown nephew were well known and liked, and there was not a single soul in the pub that night that had not been to Dr Young’s medical practice at some point in their lives.  The news of Greg’s plans spread like wildfire and soon he was in the centre of attention, receiving numerous slaps on his back and twice the number of jokes at his expense.  He responded with easy banter and on his third pint was warmed up to a point where he had gathered a large group around himself, keeping them entertained and in stitches.

_::Hello Greg.::_

He froze in mid-movement and mid-sentence.

_::Mycroft?::_

“Greg? What’s the matter?” Somebody touched his arm and he started. “Are you seeing green elephants or something?”

“I, uh, it’s nothing.” His eyes fell on a tall frame leaning against the counter and his heart started thumping madly in his chest. “I need another pint.” He bestowed an absent-minded smile on the young blonde. “Be right back.”

Weaving his way through the small crowd he had attracted he made his way to the bar, placed one foot on the rung and nodded at the pub owner.

“Pete,” he said and carefully avoided staring at Mycroft or – Heaven forbid! – touching him, “may I have another one?”

He watched Pete fill up another glass and turned to face Mycroft.

“Hello,” he casually said. “I don’t think I’ve seen you here before. What brings you to this part of the world?”

 _::You do.::_ Mycroft smiled politely and tilted his head. “I needed to clear my head so I decided to treat myself to a long weekend in Scotland. It’s lovely up here and this seems a nice pub.”

“Great choice. You’re not from around here, I gather?” _::Where are you staying?::_

 _::Holiday flat. Same as last time.::_ “No, I’m from Surrey which is where I’ll return early next week.”

“Will you do some hillwalking, or are you more the golfer type?”

“Oh, I was planning to do some wildlife watching. Maybe climb one or two hills, too.”

“You do that. Make sure you take your time on the way up to the peak.”

“That’s the plan. Then climb down and head straight for the next one.”

“Excellent strategy.” _::Remember where the campervan was parked?::_

_::I do.::_

_::As soon as I can get out of here that’s where I’m going.::_

_::You’re in no condition to drive.::_ “That’s what I thought. I plan to take it slow so I can enjoy the view.”

“Best thing to do if you’re untrained.” _::I am far from drunk, and this is not exactly Glasgow. I’ll wait for you.::_

“I am not exactly untrained. I’ve done it before, and I try to stay in shape.”

 _::And what a fine shape it is. I can’t wait to remove all these layers so I can give it my full attention.::_ “Well, enjoy your long weekend then. You’ve come to the right place.”

“Thank you. I was hoping you’d say that. Have a pleasant evening.” Mycroft emptied his glass of what looked like cider, put it on the well-worn and smooth counter and strolled outside with the same elegance of movement that Greg had so admired when they had first met.

“You know him?” Pete asked, reaching for Mycroft’s glass.

Greg shrugged one shoulder. “He looks familiar but I can’t place him. Maybe I’ve seen him around the castle. He looks like one of these university types.”

Pete snorted in response. “Trying to get in touch with his medieval self.”

“Something like that. Although he doesn’t look like history buff to me.” _He looks like the perfect midnight snack._ “More like a future banker.”

“Banker wanker.” Pete made a derisive sound and turned to the elderly man who was waiting patiently. “Aye, what’ll it be?”

******

Mycroft entered the pub with mixed feelings, caught between hope and sinking spirits.  Yesterday’s train ride had been a nightmare with massive delays, and being surrounded by an especially noisy group of German tourists during the final leg of the journey had done nothing to improve his mood.  Whatever had happened to the land of poets and thinkers if it brought forth such annoying individuals?

The next unwanted surprise had come in the shape of Mrs MacLoughlin, the flat owner’s wife.  She had greeted him with a stream of words the moment he had walked through the door and wouldn’t stop talking until he finally agreed that yes, he would be very pleased to have dinner with Mr MacLoughlin and herself.  During the course of the evening, however, he had been pleasantly surprised when Mrs MacLoughlin had offered to let him use her car during his stay which he had gratefully accepted.

Sadly, there had been no sight of either Greg or his campervan anywhere near the small lake so he had spent the better part of the day lying on the jetty, enjoying the late summer sun and daydreaming about what could possibly expect him in Hong Kong and what had happened the last time he had been here.  He had contemplated a swim but decided against it and had finally driven up to the castle ruins only to experience more disappointment.  No Greg there, either, and the door to the underground cell had been firmly locked and bolted.

On the way back to the flat he stopped by a petrol station to fill up the car and buy a newspaper.  While paying he asked for a reasonably priced pub and received directions to the _Leaping Buck_ with high recommendations _._  As it was located along the way, he decided to grab a bite there instead of trying his luck in the kitchen.

The small building looked familiar and as he pulled into the parking lot, he realised with a jolt that this was the pub where Greg had taken him.  They had arrived from the back, having taken their bicycles and chosen a different route, but it was the same pub nevertheless.  He didn’t dare get his hopes up but it was worth trying, and he was hungry, too.

The moment he stepped inside he was greeted with a roar of laughter that came from one of the tables in the back area.  He had to shout at the bearded man behind the bar to order his drink and ask for the menu, and when his eyes followed the finger pointing at the main menu, the small crowd that had gathered around the table shifted and he caught sight of a young man juggling two empty pint glasses and what looked like a bread basket.  One of the glasses fell to the ground and shattered into many pieces, causing more laughter.

Suddenly there was a swarm of butterflies in his stomach, fluttering around madly, and there was a humming inside of him, too.  _Greg_.  There was no mistaking the carefree laughter.  He would recognise it anywhere – each nuance of Greg’s voice was firmly imprinted on his acoustic memory, as was each detail of his athletic body.  His stonewash jeans had a pleasantly snug fit as did the yellow t-shirt that sat tight around shoulders and biceps, speaking of strength and agility that came from working in a profession that required full physical commitment.  Greg had gained a little weight but it was favourably distributed and sat right where it belonged.

Mycroft swallowed.  In an attempt to appear the casual bystander he turned to the bartender.

“Who’s that?”

“Oh,” the man shook his head, laughing. “That’s Greg Lestrade, one of the local boys. Well, not really local himself but his aunt and uncle are, and he’s lived with them for over ten years. We’ve adopted him. He’s a good lad.”

“Are they celebrating something?”

“I have no idea. Something about him moving to London.”

“I see.” He reached for his cider and took a careful sip to test its quality.  It was surprisingly good and he made an appreciative noise.

“What did you want to eat?” the bartender asked Mycroft who shook his head.

“I’m not really hungry.” In fact he still was, but what he now craved, and very much so, was not on the menu.  He watched Greg do something silly and clownish while the wheels in his mind were spinning to come up with a strategy to approach him without attracting unwanted attention.

 _Oh. Of course._   There was one way of doing it.  Simple, really.

_::Hello Greg.::_

******

The sound of an approaching car made Greg jump up from his sofa bed and peep through one of the side windows.  That was not what he had expected.  The last thing he needed was a moonstruck couple seeking out the quiet lakeside for a late summer rendezvous.  Not tonight, at least.  Not while a late summer rendezvous was the very thing he was hoping for himself.  A car door slammed shut and light steps approached his campervan.  Something inside him started humming and his face split into a wide grin.

He opened Erwin’s sliding door and beamed at Mycroft who stood with his hand raised as if to knock.

“Are you expecting anybody?” Mycroft asked, smiling.

“As a matter of fact, yes I am.” Greg moved away from the door and made an inviting gesture. “Care to keep me company in the meantime?”

“With pleasure.” Mycroft ducked his head and stepped inside, closing the door behind himself. 

For a moment, they just stood there, looking at each other.  Greg let his gaze travel along Mycroft’s tall frame, then snatched his right hand when something golden flashed in the subdued light of the small reading lamp next to the sofa-bed.

“You’re wearing it?”

“Of course I am.” Mycroft spread the fingers of his right hand.

Greg touched the golden ring and swallowed. “I didn’t think you would.”

“I’m not even taking it off for competitions, or training.” He curled his long fingers around Greg’s hand. “I only take it off when I’m changing, for obvious reasons.” They fingers interlaced. “It stays on when I’m sleeping, when I’m taking a shower, when I’m swimming. It’s with me all the time.”

The humming inside Greg’s chest intensified and he wet his lips.  He saw Mycroft’s eyes drop to his mouth and pulled his lower lips between his teeth, nervous all of a sudden and not understanding why.  There was something unreal about finally having Mycroft with him when he had so longed for him ever since he had made up his mind to try his luck with the Metropolitan Police.

Both stepped forward at the same time and their noses bumped painfully together.

“Ouch.”

“Fuck.”

They started laughing, rubbing their noses, and whatever traces of nervousness or hesitation might have plagued them since agreeing on this midnight date evaporated into oblivion.  Mycroft cupped Greg’s face and claimed his mouth without further ado, and Greg tilted his head for a better angle, grabbing the lapels of Mycroft’s jacket to pull him close.  Mycroft’s lips felt exactly as he remembered them but there was a new quality to his kiss.  It was more experienced, more refined, and the body that pressed itself close had somehow changed, too.  Greg let his hands slide underneath the jacket to push it off Mycroft’s shoulders and he felt sinew and muscle where there had been mostly skin and bone three years ago.  Mycroft shrugged out of his jacket and Greg stepped back to look at him.

“What is it?” Mycroft asked, confused.

“You,” Greg swallowed. “You’ve changed.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You’ve put on some muscle.”

“Is that bad?”

“Quite the contrary.” He reached for the hem of Mycroft’s polo shirt and Mycroft lifted his arms obligingly.  Greg pulled the shirt over his head, dropped it carelessly to the floor and whistled. “It’s hot as fuck. Look at you!”

There was nothing rangy about Mycroft anymore; he had become lean and lithe, with the taut, streamlined muscles of a dancer.  Or swimmer, in his case.  He would never be beefy or bulky and would always appear loose-limbed and lanky when fully dressed, but anyone with eyes in their heads would see beyond that.  Or those lucky enough to get to see him out of his clothes.

Mycroft self-consciously hugged his arms around himself, looking utterly uncomfortable. “You’re joking.”

“What?” Greg pulled Mycroft’s arms down and away from his chest. “Have you ever, and I mean recently, checked a mirror?”

He yanked his own shirt over his head and sank to his knees.

“Come here at once. If I don’t have you naked in thirty seconds I’m gonna cry.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Mycroft said, half laughing, half embarrassed but did as he was told.

“Try me.” Greg opened belt buckle, button and zipper with swift hands, then lightly slapped against Mycroft’s left calf. “Foot,” he commanded and Mycroft lifted first his left leg, then his right so Greg could remove shoes and socks. “And now for the fun part.” He grinned up at Mycroft who swallowed audibly.  He hooked his fingers into the waistband of Mycroft’s dark blue trousers and pulled them down along with the briefs, inch by agonising inch, revealing pale skin and thighs that, too, had gained muscle.

“What in the world is that?”

Greg sat back on his heels and stared at Mycroft’s slim hips where next to the right hipbone sat the stylised image of a fox.  It was small, less than two inches by two inches, and it was expertly inked into the area’s sensitive skin.  Greg touched his fingers to the delicately outlined shape and felt heat flood his system.

“Do you like it?” Mycroft asked, sounding almost shy.

Greg looked up into Mycroft’s face and nodded, not trusting his voice.  Instead, he leaned forward and touched the fox with his lips.  Mycroft drew a hissing breath and Greg wrapped his arms around his hips, caressing the patch of skin with lips and tongue until Mycroft buried a hand in Greg’s hair and made a whimpering, needy sound.  Greg smiled against his skin and transferred his attention to the part of Mycroft that needed it most, swallowing him whole, arms still wrapped around his hips, his eyes not leaving Mycroft’s face.  Mycroft widened his stance and let his head fall back, reaching blindly for something to steady him as Greg started a devastating game of suck and let go, of lick and tease.

Mycroft didn’t last long and tried to push Greg away at the very last instant but Greg stubbornly held on to his hips, taking it all and even lapped up the last drops from the still twitching prick.  Mycroft sagged back against the tiny kitchenette and managed a weak laugh.

“I must say, that was quite a welcome.”

“Thanks for coming,” Greg said, grinning, and licked the corners of his mouth. “That was exquisite.”

He let himself be hauled up and into Mycroft’s arms and tilted his head up for another kiss.  Mycroft’s hands landed on his bum cheeks and pulled him closer.

“You’re still wearing your jeans,” he said accusingly and Greg laughed.

“Want me to do something about it?”

Mycroft nodded wordlessly and Greg turned them around to push him onto the sofa bed.  Mycroft leaned back on his elbows and looked at Greg from under half-lidded eyes.  Greg chuckled.

“Now that’s a come-hither look if ever I’ve seen one.”

One auburn eyebrow arched up and Mycroft spread his long legs.

“Watch,” Greg said and stepped back.  He made a show of popping the buttons of his fly open one by one and palmed his rapidly hardening length through the V-shaped opening, teasing himself through the cotton of his boxer briefs.  Mycroft looked, transfixed, mirroring the movement, and Greg wriggled out of his jeans with maddeningly slow motions, ridding himself of shoes and socks, too.  He straightened, hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his briefs and looked at Mycroft.

“Ready?” he asked and Mycroft nodded, pulling his lower lips between his teeth.  Greg pushed his pants down his hips, let them fall to the floor and grinned when Mycroft’s eyes dropped to a spot next to the left hipbone where a small eagle owl sat on an equally small branch. 

“Oh Greg,” Mycroft whispered and held out his hand.  Greg took it and moved forward to straddle Mycroft’s legs, and they sat there, forehead to forehead, neither saying a word.  Greg’s heart was beating so loudly he was almost certain Mycroft heard it, too, and when their lips touched, the strange humming inside him intensified. 

Mycroft let himself fall back on the sofa, pulling Greg with him, and soon they were caught up in the game they both liked so well and in which they found themselves to be in perfect synchronicity with each other.  Sighs turned into throaty moans, their rubbing and pushing became more and more frantic and Greg feared that Mycroft would return from his weekend in Scotland looking as if he had been assaulted.  His long limbs were strong and beautifully flexible (“Have you taken up ballet?” – “No, but I make sure to stretch before running.” – “Good lad.”) but his skin bruised laughably easily.  He didn’t seem to mind, though, and responded by digging his long fingers into Greg’s flesh just as forcefully.

“Please,” he finally pleaded in a breathless voice, “please Greg, fuck me.”

Greg had to clamp down on the base of his cock to stop himself from coming right there and then, without even having been inside Mycroft, and after a few controlled breaths twisted out of the way to reach underneath the sofa.  When he turned over to face Mycroft again, he held a plastic bottle and a box of condoms in his hands.

“These,” he held up the box and dropped the bottle on the sofa, “have unfortunately become a necessity.”

Mycroft nodded. “I know. I’ve done quite some research on Aids.”

“My uncle says they’re still running tests and pulling together data to find out all about it but he strongly advises using protection, no matter what the newspapers say.”

“Agreed.”

With a sigh he pulled one of the small packages out of the box. “They’re okay when you’re with a girl, you know. For obvious reasons. But with a bloke? Takes the fun out of things.”

“Not necessarily.” Mycroft held out a hand and Greg dropped the condom into his palm. “Let me show you something.”

He ripped the package open and with the naughtiest smirk Greg had seen in a long while took the condom between his teeth.  Before Greg knew what was happening he had sheathed Greg’s cock with his mouth and dropped back with a smug smile.

“See?”

“How did you do that?” Greg asked, stunned.

“I take it that’s a trick you don’t get to use in the circus ring?” He turned around and lifted his hips invitingly. “I will teach you. Until then –” he reached for the lube bottle and pushed it into Greg’s direction, “lube up, Greg. I’ve been waiting three years for this and I will not wait any longer.”

Greg clicked the bottle open and hurried to oblige.  When he was sure he had applied enough lubrication both on himself and on Mycroft, he pulled Mycroft’s firm bum cheeks apart and watched as he slowly but relentlessly slid inside.  By the time he was seated balls deep, they were both panting and Mycroft was fisting the bed sheet.  Greg bent forward and kissed the strong back that was stretched out before him.  Mycroft pushed himself up on his elbows and arched his back, making the shoulder muscles flex with his movements and Greg let his hands roam along the entire length, thinking he had never seen anything so beautiful before.  Then he bracketed Mycroft’s hips with his hands because he, too, had waited three years for this.

 

“So, Greg, what have you been doing with yourself for the last three years?” Mycroft asked when their breathing had calmed down and they were lying next to each other.  Greg had his head on Mycroft’s chest, eyes closed, enjoying the feeling of Mycroft’s fingers playing with his hair.  Strange how he hated having his locks tousled by every other human being but didn’t mind at all when it was Mycroft’s hands playing with his unruly mop. “Learned new acrobatics? Travelled the world? Taken on elephants?”

“Mhm.” He blinked his eyes open. “You have no idea.”

“Surprise me.”

“I’ve taken my A-levels and have just passed the Met’s qualifying exam. I am going to be a copper with the London Metropolitan Police.” He shifted so he could look into Mycroft’s face. “What do you say?”

Mycroft didn’t say anything for a few heartbeats, then he tightened his arm around Greg. “That is wonderful. I am so, so happy.”  He pressed a kiss to the top of Greg’s head.

“But it took me more than two years,” Greg admitted. “I had such difficulties in the beginning.”

“But you struggled through. Did you go to college?”

“No, I went to evening school. I worked as a supply teacher and shop assistant during the days and went to school in the evenings.”

“A teacher? What did you teach?”

“Physical education, and it was only six hours per week. Plus thirty hours at Spar’s.”

“Thirty-six hours per week.” Mycroft whistled through his teeth. “That’s a full-time job. And you still managed to finish school. Congratulations, Greg, that’s fantastic!”

“Do you want to see my diploma?” Greg asked, hopeful.

“By all means.”

Greg rolled off the sofa bed, reached for a folder and removed a sheet. 

“Promise you won’t laugh,” he said before handing it to Mycroft.

“Why would I laugh?”

“Because I’ve taken my A-levels at twenty-five and you’re studying at Oxford.”

“Don’t be daft, Greg,” Mycroft said dismissively and reached for the diploma.  He studied it and hummed. “But that’s very good! For someone who used to hate going to school, you’ve done amazingly well.” He handed it back. “Do you plan to continue?”

“Well,” Greg put the valuable document back into the folder, “depending on how things go at the Met, I was thinking of maybe trying for a law degree.”

“What?” Mycroft’s eyebrows shot up. “Law? Have you tasted blood?”

“You were right, you know,” Greg said as he stretched out next to Mycroft again. “Studying as a grown-up is different. I know why I’m doing it, and that’s a whole different motivation.” He came to lie on his side. “How about you? What made you do that, for instance?” He touched the fox tattoo.

Mycroft rolled over to lie on his stomach and propped his chin up on a hand. “I wanted something to remind me of what happiness looks like.” Light pink dusted his ears. “Something that was all mine.” He twirled the ring with thumb and little finger. “Something that could not be taken away.”

“It’s beautiful. Where did you have it done?”

“Oxford. I sketched it myself.”

“You paint?”

“Well, I wouldn’t call it painting. I sketch things, you know, with graphite pencils. No canvas or oil paint.”

“Damn, Myc. Is there anything you can’t do?”

“I can’t juggle pint glasses.” He grinned, and Greg grinned back.

“Neither can I. Well, mine was painted for me by one of the circus boys but I only had it inked after I’d started school. For pretty much the same reasons, I guess.” He reached for Mycroft’s hand and kissed the knuckles. “What else? How’s Oxford?”

“I’m done with Oxford.”

“Already?”

“Well, I’ve obtained a bachelor’s degree in PPE and IT.” He fell silent and after what seemed a brief internal debate he said, “You see, I’ve received an offer to study at the University of Hong Kong.”

“Hong Kong?” Greg echoed. “Why?”

“It’s linked to a future position within the Government.” He pressed his lips together the moment the words were out and Greg could tell he hadn’t meant to speak them.

“I see,” he said, trying to ease the tension before it manifested. “You’re going to undermine the Chinese government so Hong Kong remains in the British Empire.” To his surprise, Mycroft blushed violently and averted his eyes. “Come on, Myc, I was only teasing,” he said and rubbed between Mycroft’s shoulder blades. “I didn’t mean to make fun of you. You’re not the spy type. You’re going to be a diplomat or something, yeah? That’s a cool job.”

Mycroft made a non-committal noise and Greg decided to drop it, not wanting to ruin their precious time together.

“So, for how long are you going to be away?”

“Two years, maybe three.”

“Three years? Damn. I was hoping –” he caught himself just in time before blurting something out he might come to regret, then cleared his throat. “What does your family have to say to that?”

“Oh, my parents are perfectly supportive. It’s my brother I’m worried about.” Mycroft took a deep breath and then the words started tumbling out of his mouth.  Greg listened, occasionally making soothing sounds, realising this was something Mycroft didn’t share very often, if at all.  Apparently the relationship between the brothers had continuously worsened since Mycroft had taken up studying at Oxford and the announcement of going to Hong Kong had been the final straw.  The brother’s school performances went downhill, regular meals were refused, he had started smoking and their parents were getting nowhere with their youngest.

“I worry about him constantly,” Mycroft finally said. “I even thought about refusing the offer. Stay at Oxford, you know, where at least I could keep an eye on him. Drive home during the weekends and the holidays.” He made a helpless gesture. “Sherlock can be so difficult.”

 _Sherlock?_   Greg tried not to laugh.  The boys’ parents had quite an extraordinary taste where names were concerned.  Fortunately Mycroft hadn’t noticed that Greg regarded his brother’s name as a source of amusement, and Greg reached for him.

“You can’t be around forever, Mycroft. Sooner or later your brother needs to grow up and learn to stand on his own two feet. Don’t throw such a chance away. I mean, Hong Kong. Imagine what you will see and learn!”

Mycroft sighed but let himself be persuaded to steer the focus away from future employments and difficult little brothers and found that Greg had an extraordinarly keen perception when it came to picking up new skills, and he quickly mastered the art of sheathing an erect penis in latex.  Mycroft, on the other hand, proved to be a patient teacher and an enthusiastic volunteer.

******

They said their good-byes after three days of changing, running, swimming, flying and thoroughly exploring each other, re-learning the landscape of their bodies and the entire kaleidoscope of reactions, from blushing to sweating, from sighing to shouting, the whole variety of moans and whimpering, of begging and swearing.  In short, when Mycroft and Greg stood before Erwin’s flat snout to bid each other farewell, they were both blissfully shagged out and deeply regretful.

“Until next time, Greg,” Mycroft said, reaching for Greg’s hand.

“Will there be a next time?”

“Why, of course there will be a next time. What makes you say that?”

“I don’t even know your family name. How will I find you?”

“I will find you. I will always find you. Don’t you ever doubt it.”

“Well, let’s hope luck is on our side.”

Mycroft placed a finger on Greg’s lips. “There’s no such thing as luck, Greg. The universe is rarely so lazy.”

They kissed one last time, clinging to each other in a desperate attempt to pour everything into that kiss which hadn’t been said and had yet been communicated with each touch.

Then it was time.  Greg got behind the wheel of his faithful campervan, and Mycroft folded his tall frame into the small car he had been allowed to use.

 

Six weeks later, Mycroft Holmes boarded a plane to Hong Kong and Police Constable Gregory Lestrade reported for duty.


	4. Chapter 4

**1990**

Mycroft Holmes left the old office building with a feeling of deep personal satisfaction, having established the contact that was so sorely needed to ensure further negotiations.  Not bad for a junior team member in his second year.  The fact that he had soaked up the language like a sponge and already spoke fluent Mandarin had been of immense help.

He shouldered the canvas bag that held his workout clothes and slung his practice sword across his back.  The shabby building where he practised t’ai chi ch’uan was located within twenty minutes walking distance, and Mycroft had come to enjoy the walk that took him along a busy street lined with colourful shops selling all kinds of articles, some of an unspeakable nature, and past a small park, an oasis of serenity in the middle of Hong Kong’s hustle and bustle that had taken him quite by surprise when he had first passed it.  Whenever he had a few minutes to spare before training he sat down on one of the wooden benches, took out his newspaper and his notebook and dictionary and practised his letters, the _hanzi_.  He had already mastered over fifteen hundred characters and was now able to grasp the meaning of everyday writing. 

His watch told him there was no time to indulge in such luxuries today and he hurried towards the _wu kwan_ , the training hall, arriving just in time to change into his loose-fitting trousers and shirt.  His _taijijian_ instructor did not tolerate late arrivals and those who intended to join his classes had better made sure they were on time.  Otherwise they were refused admittance.  Such were the rules, and his pupils obeyed.

 

Two sweaty hours later – t’ai chi ch’uan with all of its slow movements was a form of martial arts after all – he stood in the changing room, carefully stowing his practice sword into its leather sheath when white-hot pain shot through him.  He gasped, dropped the sword and clutched his left flank.  Another jolt of pain of the same excruciating intensity made him sink to his knees and the last thing he saw before he lost consciousness was Liang, his training partner, reaching out for him.

 

“Mycroft? Can you hear me?”

Mycroft slowly blinked his eyes open, disoriented, and tried to sit up.  Steady hands held him down and Liang’s worried face came into view.

“It’s alright, little brother, you’re with Uncle Shoushan. Don’t move, he’s put some needles in you.”

Another face appeared and a man of indeterminable age smiled down at him.  He felt warm fingers circle his wrist, pressing down on the pulse points. “Your pulse is getting stronger,” the man – Uncle Shoushan? – murmured. “Good, very good. Do you remember what happened?”

“I was getting ready to leave,” Mycroft said weakly, cleared his throat and continued in a steadier voice, “when there was this pain attack.” He knit his brows together as he tried to remember. “It came from out of nowhere. It felt as if something inside of me exploded.” He lifted his head to examine his left side but saw nothing and couldn’t feel anything amiss, either, and he looked at Uncle Shoushan. “I don’t understand,” he said.

Shoushan gave him a scrutinising look. “There’s nothing wrong with your body but the flow of your _qi_ has been severely disrupted.”

Mycroft gave him a blank stare.  Shoushan’s hands moved swiftly over his body, removing the needles he had placed and when there were none left, he nodded to Liang who offered Mycroft a hand to help him sit up.  Mycroft gratefully accepted and winced when he came to a sitting position, only now realising he had been stripped down to his underpants.  Something in his right groin area started throbbing painfully and he frowned, puzzled.  Shoushan immediately placed a hand on his shoulder and scanned his face.

“What’s the matter?”

Mycroft shook his head. “It hurts here,” he put his hand on his hip bone.

“May I?” Shoushan asked and when Mycroft nodded and stood up, pulled his briefs down and drew a hissing breath.  Mycroft looked down and felt something icy clutch at his heart.

The skin around his tattoo had turned fiery red and small drops of blood started emerging from the black lines.

“I don’t understand,” he repeated.  Shoushan looked at him, pity in his eyes, and that’s when realisation came to him.

 _Greg_.

******

Half a world away, somewhere in eastern London, Police Constable Lestrade was being placed on a stretcher, his mind slipping in and out of consciousness.  He saw the flickering blue lights of ambulance and police cars without recognising their significance and he heard voices drift by without understanding what they were saying.

The last conscious thought before his world faded to black was a name.

 _Mycroft_.

******

“Quick, get dressed,” Shoushan said in an urgent tone. “You mustn’t waste any time.” He turned to Liang. “Take him to Guangli at once, nephew.”

Liang’s eyes went huge and round, and he nodded.  Shoushan scribbled something on a piece of paper and handed it to Liang while Mycroft put his clothes back on with shaking hands.  Liang reached for Mycroft’s canvas bag and sword and motioned to follow him.  Mycroft nodded his thanks to Shoushan, promised to return the next day and followed Liang outside where they hailed a cycle rickshaw. 

They rode in silence.  Mycroft stared blindly ahead, ignorant of the goings-on in the lively quarter they were crossing.  His mind was in turmoil and he felt as if his blood had been replaced with ice water.

_Please be alright, Greg. Oh God, please don’t let anything happen to him._

Images flashed before him in a mad whirl until they all came together to a pair of dark brown eyes full of laughter.  Mycroft swallowed.  His chest felt constricted and he was finding it hard to breathe.

_Please Greg, please don’t be hurt._

“We’re here.”  A hand was placed on his arm and he started.  Liang indicated towards what looked like a small temple, huddled between two business houses that had seen better days, their colourful shop signs half eroded, most of the plasterwork and paint coming off the walls, revealing crude brickwork.  Mycroft nodded, numbly, climbed out and watched as Liang paid the rickshaw driver.  He followed Liang into the temple where he was ushered into a quiet corner.

“Wait here while I send for Guangli, little brother. As soon as I have found him I will leave for this must remain between him and you. Will you be alright?”

There was concern in Liang’s eyes and Mycroft, trying to appear a lot more confident than he felt, managed a smile.

“Don’t worry. I will be fine. Really,” he said in as firm a voice as he could muster, “I’ll be alright. I don’t have to work tomorrow, and I promise I will rest.”

“And see Uncle Shoushan,” Liang said.

“And see Uncle Shoushan,” Mycroft confirmed. “Please write down his address for me, will you?”

Liang reached into his breast pocket and produced a creased business card. “Here it is. Now sit down and wait.”

He dropped Mycroft’s bag to the floor, handed him the sword and gestured towards a narrow wooden bench.  Only when Mycroft had obediently sat down did he hurry off in search of the mysterious Guangli.

Mycroft placed his sword across his thighs and forced himself to breathe in and out in regular intervals.  Inhale-two-three exhale-two-three.  His eyes focussed on the _Qilin_ statue sitting in the corner.  The colourful creature had its oxtail curled around its hooves and the large eyes in its dragon head stared straight ahead, right at Mycroft who looked back and slowly let his eyes unfocus.

_::Greg? Greg, can you hear me?::_

He had never tried contacting Greg before, had never tried to find out if this way of communication worked across longer distances, too, and was beginning to hate himself for not finding out more about it.  It had all seemed so natural and easy while they were together, but then this whole new world with its exotic culture and habits, along with his new tasks and assignments and a foreign language he was determined to master as quickly as possible, had taken over all of his focus so completely that it had never crossed his mind that this particular ability of theirs might come in useful when they were apart.

Nothing.  He noticed, absent-minded at first but with growing alarm, that the pleasant humming inside of him that occurred whenever he thought of Greg or whenever they were close had dulled to a faint buzzing.   To anyone passing him he looked perfectly calm and in quiet contemplation, sitting with his hands folded in his lap and his eyes fixed on the Qilin, but anyone paying closer attention would have noticed white knuckles and a fine sheen of sweat on his face. 

The soft rustling of a robe and light steps approaching him made him turn his head.  A man of slight build and medium height had come to stand before him.  He was dressed in a scarlet gown with white edging, the traditional attire of a Daoist monk, and was smiling at him.

“Greetings,” he said, “Cousin Shoushan sends you with a matter of some urgency.” His English was fluent with only a trace of an accent. 

Mycroft placed his sword on the bench, rose and bowed politely. “Master Guangli?” he asked and the monk chuckled.

“I am no master, little brother. Around here, they call me Fan Dao Zhang, but you may call me Guangli for we are of the same family.” He took a step back. “Follow me. We cannot talk here.”

Guangli waited for Mycroft to pick up his bag and sword and led the way through the temple until they reached a back door.  He opened it, slipped through and gestured for Mycroft to follow him.  The low-ceilinged corridors had clearly not been constructed for men of his height and Mycroft had to duck his head a few times.  He was beginning to feel slightly claustrophobic when they finally stepped through a heavy wooden door that led into a garden that was more generous than the confined temple space had led to expect, and for a brief moment Mycroft forgot all about his current grief, looking around the deceptively simply designed garden with admiration and appreciation, taking in the lake in the centre, the trees, the flowers, and wishing he had been brought here under happier circumstances.  He followed the monk into a small pavilion overlooking the rock garden to the south.  A young novice scurried by them, having prepared a tea tray that sat on a low table in the middle of the room and Guangli closed the door behind him.

Without further ado he turned to Mycroft.

“May I see, please?”

Mycroft looked around him uncertainly but when Guangli nodded with an encouraging smile, undid his trousers and bared his right hipbone.  Guangli removed the bandage with gentle hands.  His eyes widened slightly.

“ _Huli jing_ ,” he said, surprise in his voice. “Fox spirit. I had not expected this.”  He studied the tattoo and the dried blood, placed cool fingertips to the skin that was still fiery red and closed his eyes in concentration.  He put the bandage back in place and straightened. “Thank you. I have seen enough.”

Mycroft zipped up and sat down cross-legged at the low table opposite the monk who poured tea for both of them and waited for him to speak, fighting an urge to fidget and press on.  Hong Kong might belong to Britain in a political sense but it was Chinese at heart, and time had a different meaning here.  Western impatience and brisk efficiency would get him nowhere, and so he forced himself to remain calm, if only on the outside.

Taking a careful sip from his cup, Guangli finally raised his eyes to Mycroft and said in his soft voice, “You are a Shifter, little brother. Do you know what that means?”

Mycroft shrugged one shoulder. “I can change into an owl.”

“An owl?” For the second time, Guangli’s eyes widened.

“I know,” Mycroft gave a wry smile. “They don’t have a good reputation here.”

“They are considered bad luck and are feared by some.” Guangli took another sip. “But they stand for _xiao_ as well – bravery –, for people who dare do things in unusual places at certain hours that most people would never be brave enough to do.”

“Well, that’s something.”

“But you’re not Chinese and therefore don’t have to worry about our superstitious beliefs.”

“I don’t worry about anybody’s superstitious beliefs.” Mycroft brought his teacup to his lips and took an experimental sip.  The mild top note ending on a spicy base note made him hum appreciatively. “But I respect them for superstition can be a powerful enemy. The owl’s reputation in Chinese mythology was one of the first things I researched before changing over here.” Another wry smile. “I would hate to end up as owl stew.”

“I don’t doubt it.” Guangli laughed softly. “Do you change into anything else but an owl?”

“No.”

“There are two kinds of Shifters. Those who can take only one animal form and those who can change into any animal they have ever touched. Your _huli jing_ , does she change into anything else?”

“He,” Mycroft corrected. “He’s a man. And he can only change into a fox, nothing else.”

Guangli lowered his cup. “A male Fox? That is very unusual.” He swirled the tea slowly in his cup. “Is he very beautiful? Fox spirits usually are powerful seductresses of exquisite beauty.”

Mycroft thought of Greg’s strong, athletic body and smiled. “He is beautiful but in a very masculine way. There is nothing remotely feminine about him. He’s all male.”

The monk pointed to Mycroft’s hip. “Has he touched the tattoo?”

“He has,” Mycroft calmly said. “He has kissed it.”

 “You’re lovers, then.”

“We are.” Strange how confessing such intimate details didn’t make him feel uneasy at all.  But there was no judgment in the narrow eyes, and Guangli nodded thoughtfully.

“Does he have a tattoo as well?”

“A small eagle owl, yes.”

“And have you kissed it, too?”

“I have.”

“Mhm.” Guangli pursed his lips. “Have you noticed anything since then?”

“Like what?”

“Do you feel anything when you think of him? When you’re close to him?”

“Emotionally, you mean? Or physically?” Mycroft furrowed his brow, thinking. “There’s this humming inside of me that wasn’t there before I met him and,” he swallowed, “it’s now faded to a buzz in the background.”

Guangli put his cup on the table and looked at Mycroft.  The expression in his eyes was hard to read.

“Most unusual.” He narrowed his eyes until they were little more than slits in his face. “It seems you have formed a wild Bond.”

“A what?”

“A wild Bond.” More tea was poured, and Guangli blew over the steaming liquid. “With your permission, I will keep this short and to the point because there’s a more urgent matter to be tended to.”

Mycroft accepted another cup.

“There are those who change into animal shapes,” the monk began, “and they’re called shifters or animal spirits. Some change into only one shape, others can take on multiple shapes. And then there’s what we call Anchors. Humans with strong Mindspeech abilities and an even stronger inner balance.  Anchors cannot change.”

“Mindspeech?”

“The ability to communicate without speaking aloud. Telepathy, if you will, but Mindspeech is more precise.”

“I see.”

“Anchors and Shifters ideally form Links or Bonds with one another. A Link is the weaker version of a Bond, it’s something like a working partnership on friendly terms that can be ended anytime without either coming to harm. A Bond is a powerful thing for it binds two beings together in mind and spirit. A Bond cannot be broken without causing serious harm, and it usually ends only if one of the partners dies.”

“What happens to the survivor?”

“He or she will suffer severe trauma. Some will never recover and will slowly fade away, some will rather take their own lives than being without their Bonded. Some will come through the pain even stronger, maybe even form a new Bond at a later point in life. One never knows. Sometimes it’s the weakest man that comes out the strongest hero.”

Mycroft listened with growing fascination as Guangli outlined a world that was more exotic and even stranger than anything he had ever seen or heard of.  He would have waved it off into the land of myths and fairy-tales if not… well, if not for the simple fact that he himself had spent a considerable amount of time in feathers since his fifteenth birthday and had seen Greg change into a fox with his own eyes.

“What does an Anchor do?”

“An Anchor keeps the Shifter balanced. If a Shifter spends too much time in his or her animal shape, they run the risk of losing touch with the human part of their personalities and will never be able to change back. Their Anchor keeps them grounded.”

“How is a Bond formed? Or a Link?”

“Well,” Guangli shifted and rearranged his gown. “Links tend to be entered into as one would set up a business relationship, if you will. Anchor and Shifter agree to form a Link with the use of certain phrases which may vary from region to region but is always along the lines of the Anchor offering safety and a haven, and the Shifter accepting and offering protection and loyalty in return. In some cases a Bond will arise from a Link, in other cases the Link remains what it is.”

“And a Bond?”

“Bonds are usually formed during moments of a very intimate nature, when _yin_ and _yang_ come together.”

“Male and female?”

“Not necessarily. As the Anchor is the one offering something, he or she is _yang_ by definition. The Shifter is the receiving part and thus is _yin_. It has nothing to do with gender.”

“And what is a wild Bond, then?”

“It is very unusual for two Shifters to form a Bond because how can they anchor each other when they’re both changing? One of them has to have an unusually strong personality, deeply grounded within himself. You’re an Owl and your Bonded is a Fox, which makes you a creature of air and him a creature of earth, and that just might explain it. What’s he like?”

Mycroft smiled. “He’s a policeman now but he used to be a circus clown. He loves to make people laugh, you see, and there’s also a very protective streak in him. He wasn’t very good at school but he’s not stupid, or slow, either. He has taken his A-levels since then and is even thinking about obtaining a law degree.”

“So he’s a gentle and caring person.”

“He is.” Mycroft started blinking rapidly. “And he’s everything to me, Brother Guangli. What can I do to keep him safe? I’m half a world away and I can’t just leave my post.”

“You must Reach out to him and Send strength and courage through your Link.”

“I don’t know how to do that,” Mycroft said in a constricted voice. “I don’t even know what you’re talking about.”

“Will you allow me to Reach inside and show you?”

“Do whatever you need to do. Just please, show me how to help him. I cannot lose him.”

Guangli nodded, placed his teacup on the table, took Mycroft’s from him and set it next to his.  Then he pushed back the wide sleeves of his robe and held out his bare forearms to Mycroft who rolled up his sleeves, too.  They clasped each other’s arms and the monk’s dark eyes bore into Mycroft’s.

“Do I have your permission to Touch your mind and teach you how to Reach your Bonded?”

“You do,” Mycroft replied.

“Close your eyes, little brother, and let me show you.”

Mycroft’s eyes fluttered close and suddenly there was a second presence in his mind.  It felt strange, but it was gentle, and Mycroft controlled his breath until the initial feeling of unease subsided.  Guangli showed him how to open his Channel, how to Reach out, how to Send and Project, and then he Reached further and put something else in place, something that felt like a Shield, and taught Mycroft how to protect himself from unwanted intrusion.

When Mycroft opened his eyes again, he felt dizzy and nauseous with a strong headache coming on.  But he had understood, and when Guangli motioned for them to leave, he scrambled to his feet without the usual fluid grace but with a lot less panic in his chest.

Guangli reached into his embroidered belt and produced a small leather pouch.

“Make a tea from this and drink it before you lie down. It will make the nausea go away and will reduce the headache to a tolerable level.”

Mycroft accepted the pouch, opened it and took a careful sniff.  Guangli laughed when he made a face.

“It smells unpleasant, yes. It needs to brew for thirty minutes and will taste a lot worse than it smells. Do not sweeten it,” he warned. “It will not go down easily, but it will help.”

“I trust you.” Mycroft bowed deeply. “And I thank you.”

“Come back when you can. And if you wish, I will teach you more.”

“I would be most grateful.”

The monk nodded his head in acknowledgment and led the way back to the main entrance where Mycroft bowed one last time and stepped back outside and into Hong Kong’s bustling activity that had not died down despite the late hour. 

 

When he reached his tiny apartment, he prepared the brew as instructed and took a quick shower.  The skin around his tattoo was still fiery red and he winced when the water ran across it, making it burn and throb even more. 

The tea tasted foul and bitter, like something straight from a nightmare, but he forced it down with grim determination and lay down on his narrow bed.  Sure enough, the nausea disappeared and the drilling headache subsided to something dull and less painful.

He closed his eyes, slipped his right hand underneath his pyjama bottoms and placed it above his tattoo.  With a deep breath he opened his Channel, just as Guangli had taught him, and Reached out.  Their Bond lay before his inner eye like a stream of a dulled orange that was pulsing weakly.

_::Greg. If you can hear me, I want to you to know that you are not alone.::_

As his breathing became more and more even, he slipped into a trancelike state and started Sending thoughts along the Channel on each exhale.  Thoughts of strength and comfort, of courage and hope, of companionship and… love.

 

He woke the next morning feeling exhausted, but he woke to a faint humming inside of him and when he pushed his pyjama bottoms down over his hips, he saw the angry red around his tattoo had faded to a light pink, and touching it didn’t hurt anymore.  He Looked inside, and what had appeared dull and almost lifeless last night was now glowing in a soft amber.  He touched the small fox that was inked into his skin.

_::Greg?::_

Something drifted across his mind, hardly more than a whisper, and it was gone in a mere blink of an eye.  But he caught it nevertheless, and it filled him with joy.

_::Thank you, Myc.::_

He lay motionless for a while and filed the precious little snippet away.  Then he pushed the sheet off and all but jumped out of bed.  There was research to be done and things to be learnt.  No time to waste lying around.

******

“How are you feeling today, Mr Lestrade?”

Dr Morgan reached for the clipboard that held Greg’s data sheet and scanned the entries.  Greg managed a weak smile.

“Like shit, if I may be so frank.”

“You may.” She removed the blanket to check his wound. “Your guardian angel has put in for a week off, so try and don’t do anything reckless for the next few days.”

“I don’t think I could, even if I wanted to.” He winced when he caught sight of the ugly bruises that surrounded his injury. “Trying to get into a sitting position is about the only adventure I can handle right now.”

“And it’s about all you should do,” she sternly said and motioned for the nurse to replace the wound’s dressing. “You were in a critical condition and for a moment we thought we were going to lose you.”  She scribbled down her notes on the data sheet while the nurse took care of the wound.

“Ah,” he said and pulled up the blanket when the nurse was done and winked at her.  The young woman smiled and left the room at Dr Morgan’s nod. “I’m not quite ready to walk towards the white light yet.”

“That’s good to hear.” She gave him a faint smile and turned to leave.

“Besides,” he added, as if on second thought, “there was this glowing life-line holding me in place.”

“Faith can be a very strong motivator,” she said, glancing back at him over her shoulder.

“It wasn’t faith. I was anchored in place.”

She froze and turned around very slowly. “What did you just say?”

“I said,” he repeated, puzzled by the expression on her face, “I was anchored in place. It was as if somebody had thrown me a life-line.”

Her expression was unfathomable and for a crazy moment he thought something had touched his mind.  It was gone before he could place it, and Dr Morgan gave him a curt nod.

“Try to get some sleep, Mr Lestrade. The nurse will bring your medication along with the afternoon tea. I will check up on you again in the morning.”

“Thank you, Doctor.” With his right hand he adjusted the pillow to his liking and closed his eyes when the door was pulled shut behind his surgeon.

 

Greg blinked his eyes open to the sound of a chair being carefully moved across the floor.  The dimmed light outlined a slim shape sitting by the visitors’ table.  He cleared his throat.

“Who are you?”

The shape moved and he recognised Dr Morgan.

“Doctor,” he said, his voice still thick, and he reached for his glass of water. “What are you doing here in the middle of the night?”

She made a small amused sound. “It’s nine p.m. which hardly qualifies as the middle of the night.”

“Oh,” he said, taking a greedy gulp. “I’ve lost all track of time in here.” He put the glass back and struggled to sit up.  She immediately rose to assist and when he was comfortably seated, pulled the chair up to sit by his side, meeting his questioning eyes with a calm gaze of her own.  Her eyes were of an unusually intense green, he noticed absent-mindedly.

“I had planned to hold this conversation a little later but I’ve come to believe this is as good a time as any.”

“Pardon?”

“Tell me about that life-line you mentioned this afternoon,” she urged him and he narrowed his eyes.

“What’s it to you?”

“Please, Mr Lestrade, I assure you I am not making fun of you, and this is not a psych eval in disguise, either.” She sighed when he pressed his lips together. “Alright then. Let me try this. You have an owl tattoo next to your left hip, correct?”

“Yes,” he slowly said, not understanding what she was getting at. “And?”

“Your heart stopped beating while we were operating on you and during the following activities the surgical covers shifted a little. Just as we were getting ready to shock you, your tattoo began glowing orange and your heart started beating again.” She crossed her legs. “I pulled the cover back where it belonged and hoped that no-one but me had noticed. Mind telling me what that was all about?”

Greg let his head sink against the pillows. “I, uh –” he was groping for words but her encouraging nod made him continue, “I don’t remember much of what happened after I got shot. To be honest, I don’t remember much at all,” he frowned in concentration, “only that it was all black around me and then there was this one signal.  A beacon of sorts. It was glowing amber and it felt warm and it seemed to call out to me. And then it was like hand to wrist, you know? I held on to it and I felt protected and, well, yeah, anchored in place, like I said.”

“Do you have an idea where it might have come from?”

“Yes,” he said. “I know exactly where it came from.”

“Well,” Dr Morgan sat back and studied him with her hands folded in her lap. “What do you know about Shifters, Mr Lestrade?”

******

**Spring 1992**

Mycroft stepped out of the private jet and onto the gangway, shielding his eyes against the sun.  It was May, and London greeted him with blue skies and sunshine.

Two black limousines stood waiting for them, and he respectfully waited until his senior officers had taken their seats before he climbed in behind Tony Robson.

“God, it’s good to be home.” Tony sighed happily and stretched his legs. “Only one more thing to do, and then it’s ten days off.” He yawned. “Are you okay with stepping in for Paul, Mycroft?”

“Certainly. Paul has a family and I don’t. Besides, I speak Hakka, Yuè and Wú. Paul only speaks Mandarin.”

“And I still have no idea how you did it. I mean, Taiwanese, Cantonese and Shanghainese in addition to Mandarin? In less than four years?”

 “You need to figure out the tonal system. That’s the trickiest part. The rest is vocabulary training and understanding the cultural subtleties.”

“And Japanese?”

Mycroft shrugged and Tony exchanged a look with Andrew who sat opposite him. “Right. And you picked up an audio course in Spanish, too?”

“Something to occupy myself with during the flight, yes.”

“Apart from studying the outline of your next assignment.”

“That is correct.”

Tony shook his head. “And have you decided whether you will teach yourself Castilian or will you rather lean towards the Americas?”

“Are you making fun of me, Tony?” It had taken him a while but Mycroft had eventually understood that Tony was never really mocking him.  Rather, he would tease him in a good-natured way about his bookishness that still came out once in a while and quickly found ways to put Mycroft’s remarkable intellect to good use.  The four of them had become a tightly knit team in Hong Kong, with Tony being the most senior officer and in charge, and Andrew, Paul and Mycroft in various stages of their careers. 

“We can always use a protocol droid,” Paul said and Andrew gave an R2-D2 whistle.

“Oh no, Master Paul, we’re doomed,” Mycroft retorted in his best C-3PO voice, and they laughed.

It was indeed good to be home again, and he was looking forward to seeing his family.  Although he had exchanged letters with his parents and his brother and had spoken to them on the phone as well, they hadn’t seen each other in all of the time he had been gone.  When his assignment in Hong Kong had ended, he had been sent to Shanghai, and from there, to Tokyo, and before he had realised it, almost four years had gone by.  Sherlock had stopped writing about a year ago and the brothers had spoken on the phone only twice, with Sherlock ending both conversations rather abruptly. 

“Made any plans yet?” Paul asked.

“Oh, I don’t know. Spend time with the parents, I assume,” Mycroft said evasively.

“How about a trip to Scotland?” Tony grinned. “I remember something like an acquaintance up there, yes?”

Mycroft didn’t flinch, didn’t even blush.  His everyday tasks and assignments had taken care of that, and Guangli’s teachings had done the rest.  Four years hadn’t quite hardened him, but he had learnt a great deal about body language and non-verbal communication, and he had learnt to snap his shields shut in the blink of an eye.

“A bonny Highland lass?” Andrew nudged his knee. “Or a strapping Highland lad?”

An auburn eyebrow went up. “Interested, Andrew?”

“Hell no. I’ve made arrangements to see Sheila tonight. Or maybe Tanya.”

“Or maybe both,” Tony said drily. “Just make sure you’re on post tomorrow at oh-eight-hundred.”

Andrew groaned. “Show some mercy. I’m yearning for a true English rose.”

Paul and Mycroft snorted in unison.  If left to his own devices, Andrew would happily work his way from English rose to blushing daisy, picking up shy violets and intoxicating lilies on the way.

Tony cleared his throat. “Lads, may I have your attention for a moment?”

They fell silent at once and listened as he outlined the upcoming agenda.  Paul, although excused on the grounds that he was a family man and was already officially on leave, listened just as carefully in case something went wrong and he would be called back nevertheless.

“We will be assisted by the Metropolitan Police,” Tony concluded. “A few police officers will be present for back-up, some of them in uniform for visibility, others in plain clothes.”

“Uniforms,” Andrew rolled his eyes. “Is that really necessary?”

“It is, if only for public appearance’s sakes. We don’t want another embassy siege with the SAS boys storming in. A couple of uniforms placed here and there might help keep spontaneous outbursts at bay.”

Mycroft pretended studying the file Tony had produced from his briefcase but he stared blindly at the photos, his mind spurting out crazy what-if scenarios with each beat of his heart.  What if Greg was one of the officers?  He had intended to contact him as soon as he was off duty and it was safe to lower his shield, but what if they ran into each other the next day?  What then?  Mycroft hadn’t dared initiate contact after the incident that had introduced him to Guangli and this whole new world of Shifters and all it entailed, not while he was still in training and not sure enough of his shielding abilities.  What if Greg had moved on since then, tired of waiting?  And what if he still wanted Mycroft as badly as Mycroft wanted him?

A sudden longing surged through him, so strong that he closed his eyes for a moment.

“Anything the matter, Mycroft?”

He opened his eyes and met Tony’s quizzical gaze.

“Memorising the faces,” he calmly said and Tony nodded.

“Feeding them into that memory of yours, yes?”

“Exactly.”

They went through the schedule again and again until all questions had been answered, and finally were released into their individual hotel rooms.

******

Greg critically checked his reflection in the body-length mirror, brushed off non-existents specks of dust from his uniform sleeve and adjusted his Custodian Helmet.  He was not looking forward to being a uniformed wall decoration which was not his idea of fruitful police work but such were the orders.  He sighed.  Detective Sergeant Lestrade sounded so much better than Police Constable Lestrade, and if he didn’t want to endanger his promotion or his transfer into the Crime Unit, he’d better keep his temper in check and his mouth shut for once. 

He turned and made his way to his assigned post with brisk steps, nodding his greetings to the other officers who looked just as enthusiastic about the prospect of adorning the walls of the Chinese Embassy as he felt himself.  Schooling his features into an impassive mask, he took his spot and started scanning the people filing in, diplomats and politicians, military, businessmen and -women.  He opened his Shield by the merest fraction and Scanned on that level, too.

A whole new world had opened up to him when Dr Morgan – Penelope – had come to pay him her nightly visit back at the hospital.  She had told him about Shifters and Weres, and had taught him how to use his Gift in the weeks and months that followed.  He had absorbed it all, eager to learn and infinitely relieved to find out there were others like himself and Mycroft, even within the Met, and he had soon formed friendships.  Had taken lovers, too, but had kept all these… arrangements on a non-committal level, pleasant enough as they were.

 _I will always find you._   Mycroft’s words had imprinted themselves on his memory, and he had no doubt Mycroft would keep his word.  Although they hadn’t contacted each other since the day he got shot, whatever it was that had bound them together had never stopped humming inside of him.  It had become as familiar as the beating of his heart and when it intensified from time to time, he knew Mycroft was thinking of him, too, and that was all he needed. 

As it did right now.  He felt his heartbeat quicken and he closed his eyes for a moment, permitting himself the luxury of a mad daydream.  What if Mycroft was back in England?  What if that mysterious job of his had had anything to do with Hong Kong being returned to the People’s Republic of China?  What if…

A wave of _yearning_ swept across his mind and he snapped his eyes open.  He scanned the room again until his gaze landed on a tall young man, impeccably dressed in a dark suit with shoes polished to shine, his dark auburn hair neatly trimmed with the exception of a cowlick that had managed to resist all grooming efforts.  The man stood with his back towards him, towering over a group of rapidly talking Chinese but it was impossible to mistake him.  He would recognise that effortless elegance of posture anywhere.

_::Mycroft.::_

There was no visible reaction but he Felt Mycroft Reach for him, and it was as gentle a caress as any physical touch.

_::Greg.::_

He shifted on his feet, the desire to leave his post overwhelming, but he remained where he was, waiting patiently.

Finally Mycroft turned around and crossed the room with his easy stride, stopping along his way to bow here, drop a few sentences there and accept a drink from one of the pretty waitresses until he reached the pillar next to where Greg was standing.  He leant against it and lazily swirled the drink in his glass, for all the world appearing like a guest taking a breather before mingling with the crowd again.

_::When are you off duty?::_

_::My shift ends at eight thirty p.m.::_

_::I’ll be done here at nine. Do you have any plans for later?::_

_::I have one now.::_ Greg couldn’t suppress his smile, and one side of Mycroft’s mouth lifted as well.

_::Where?::_

_::Can you come to my flat?::_ He supplied the address.

_::Do you want me to change and fly to you? Might be more discreet.::_

_::No. You come as you are. I need to peel you out of this sinful suit of yours. With my teeth.::_

The tips of Mycroft’s ears tinted pink and Greg bit the inside of his cheeks to stop himself from grinning.

_::You do that, and then you will take me against the wall with your uniform still on. Make me scream your name, Constable Lestrade.::_

With that, Mycroft sauntered off and Greg experienced the discomfort of his suddenly very tight uniform trousers.

******

When a knock announced his visitor, Greg all but jumped out of his skin.  He clumsily rose from the armchair he had slumped into, smoothed his uniform jacket and rushed to open the door.  Mycroft was still in his dark suit, a light coat draped over his arm and an overnight bag slung across his shoulder.  They stood there for a few seconds, just looking at each other, then Greg stepped aside.

“Please come in.”

“Thank you,” Mycroft said politely. 

“You may put your bag here,” Greg pointed, “and give me your coat.” He reached for a hanger and held out his hand.  Mycroft dropped his bag and handed his overcoat to Greg as requested. 

Greg led the way into his living room and there they stood again, neither man uttering as much as a syllable.  Then Greg dropped his Shield and let all of his joy and hope flood his Channel, and was met with such a surge of raw _want_ that he felt almost dizzy for a moment. 

They stepped into the circle of each other’s arms, the time gap of almost four years wiped away by their bodies’ instant recognition of one another.

Greg did take Mycroft against the wall with his uniform still on, and Mycroft did scream Greg’s name.  Twice.  Loudly.

Later, Mycroft took his revenge, exquisitely torturing Greg until he begged for mercy.  Repeatedly. Sobbing Mycroft's name.

 

Greg limped to work the next morning, his body sore, each muscle protesting.  But he limped to work with a grin, whistling to himself until his senior officer threatened to have him divert traffic if he didn’t stop at once.  The threat miserably failed to deliver the desired effect.

Mycroft had his suitcases delivered to Greg’s flat and boarded the train to his parents’ house with an overnight bag that held enough clothes for two nights.  If his mother noticed his slightly stiff body posture and the purple bruise showing just above his shirt collar, she didn’t say anything but embraced her eldest in a gesture of warm welcome. 

Sherlock, however, stormed out of the room with an air of utter disgust and disappointment.


	5. Chapter 5

Mycroft woke up to something tickling his nose.  He sneezed and blinked from sleep into consciousness, trying to identify what had woken him. 

He reached for Greg and his hand landed on soft fur instead of warm skin.  The Fox was sleeping peacefully, curled up into a ball, bushy tail loosely arranged around his small frame.  Mycroft watched the white tip twitch, smiled and carefully touched it with his fingertips, unable to resist the temptation. 

Greg stirred awake and opened his eyes.  His pupils, slit like a cat’s in daylight, were fully dilated in the near darkness of the bedroom.

 _::Hey, Myc,::_ he said sleepily. _::Anything the matter?::_

“No, it’s all fine. I woke up to a giant paintbrush tickling my nose.”

 _::A giant… oh.::_ Greg pulled his tail closer. _::Sorry about that.::_

“Please, don’t be. No harm done. I just hadn’t expected it.” He held out his hand, let it hover over the Fox’ body. “May I?”

Greg uncurled, stretched, yawned and lay down next to Mycroft who propped his head up on his right hand, waiting to be granted permission to touch.

 _::Help yourself,::_ the Fox said encouragingly and Mycroft touched his back, tentative at first, but quickly lost himself in the luscious plushness that awaited him.  He buried his fingers in thick underfur that was shorter than the outer hair, surrounding the Fox’s body even to the tail, softer and finer than anything he had ever touched.  There were more silver streaks in the dark fur than he remembered, highlighted by the moonlight filtering in through the blinds, and he wondered if Greg’s hair would one day turn silver, too.  He tried to conjure up images of a greyed Greg Lestrade but couldn’t picture him with anything but his dark shock of hair that had been trimmed to look less unruly but was still anything but tame. 

For now, he was happy to be allowed to touch and stroke to his heart’s content and he explored the different texture on different parts of the Fox’s body, fine and plush on the underbelly, a little coarser and woollier on the tail.  On forehead and limbs, the fur was the shortest and while the large black ears did not have any long hairs at all, they, too, were thickly clothed with fur.  They flicked when Mycroft played with them, indicating canine amusement and just a hint of impatience, but no complaint was made. 

When his curiosity had been sufficiently satisfied, Mycroft came to a half-sitting position with his shoulders on the pillow and his head against the headboard, and Greg draped himself over his chest and stomach, his eyes closing in bliss when Mycroft’s hands started caressing him with slow, regular strokes.

“What happened to your no cuddle policy?”

Greg cracked one eye open. _::My what?::_

“’No cuddling, I’m no pet’,” Mycroft quoted. “When I lifted you up in that cell?”

 _::Oh that,::_ the Fox said dismissively. _::That was ages ago and before all of this.::_

“All of this?” He took a forepaw in his hand and rubbed across the sole with his thumb.  Unlike a dog’s, the Fox’s feet were thickly covered with woolly hair and the pads weren’t callous.

_::You and me. This. Us.::_

The air between them blurred and Greg’s naked body stretched out across him.  He slid down until only his chest and head rested on Mycroft’s upper body.

“If you want the whole truth, I was starved for your touch,” he confessed. “Four years, Mycroft. That’s one hell of a long time.”

“I know. I had not expected to be gone for longer than two years.” Mycroft resumed his caresses and Greg sighed, his dark eyes fluttering close. “But with any luck I won’t be away for that long again.”

“Where are you going next?”

“Oh, here and there,” he said evasively.

“You’d have to kill me if you told me?”

“Not quite that drastic.”

“But?” Greg opened his eyes and looked up into Mycroft’s face. “What are you doing anyway? You’re no diplomat, that’s for sure.”

“What makes you say that?”

“I don’t think a diplomat has to be all mysterious about his next assignment. And,” he slid up a little and put his chin on Mycroft’s sternum, “you were carrying.”

“Pardon?”

“I’m a policeman, Myc, I see things. Diplomats don’t carry. At least not to my knowledge, and not at receptions like that one. So, what are you? Secret Service or something?”

Mycroft went very still and Greg’s eyes widened.

“You’re kidding me,” he said and Mycroft groaned.

“You weren’t supposed to find out.” He covered his eyes with this arms. “What do I do now?”

“It’s the Bond,” Greg pointed out. “You can omit the truth but you can’t actively lie. Well, not to me, obviously.” He pulled Mycroft’s arms off his face. “You don’t do anything, silly. Do you think I’ll have a t-shirt printed?”

“Spies do it secretly.” Mycroft made a noise between a sigh and laughter, and Greg snorted.

“Mycroft Holmes. The spy who shagged me.”

They looked at each other, and Mycroft started giggling.  The sound, so unlike anything Greg had ever heard coming from him, threw Greg into a mad giggling fit of his own, and so they lay next to each other, spy and policeman, producing sounds that would have done two teenage girls proud.

The giggles eventually turned into moans and panting as Mycroft wasted no time making Greg forget all about having t-shirts printed and when he finally flopped back, sweaty, panting and spent, it was with a much lighter heart for the idea of keeping something from Greg had gnawed at him.  He would not be able to share details of his assignments, of course not, but a future homicide officer would know better than to press on. 

There was just one more thing.

“Greg?”

“Mhm?”

“I would like to list you as my next of kin in case of an emergency.”

“What?” Greg raised his head and stared at Mycroft. “But… your family?”

“Well, my parents’ names and address are obviously in my file, as is my brother’s.” He smoothed Greg’s dark strands. “It would mean a lot to me. You mean a lot to me,” he added and reached for one of Greg’s hands to kiss his knuckles.

“Would you allow me to do the same? I mean, would it be okay if I gave your name away?”

“I would be honoured. It’s just that I don’t have an address of my own yet. I’m still officially living with my parents.”

Greg pulled his lower lip between his teeth, obviously mulling something over. “You can always move in with me,” he finally suggested. “I mean, this flat is big enough for two, and you’ll be gone a lot, right? I promise I won’t open your mail or anything.”

“Are you serious?”

“Of course I am. I’ve been serious since you first kissed me,” he said matter-of-factly and the simplicity of that statement took Mycroft’s breath away.  He blinked a couple of times.

“But haven’t you found –” he began but Greg placed a finger on his lips, silencing him.

“No, I haven’t found anyone else. Yeah, I’ve not exactly been chaste. But I haven’t lied to anyone and I haven’t committed to anything. Four years,” he said again, “I’m not a monk, you know.”

Mycroft laughed softly. “No, you’re not.”

“How about you?”

“Not a monk either.”

“Good. Guess that makes me less of a slut then.”

“You’re not a slut. You didn’t know whether I’d come back.”

“Of course I did. You promised.”

“I did?”

“You said you’d always find me. And you did.”

“Indeed.” He reached for one of the pillows and turned over so he came to lie on his left side, facing Greg. “There’s something you need to be aware of, however.”

“Yes?”

“If I move in with you and if I give your name as primary contact, you will have to undergo a full security check. It’s standard procedure.”

“Seriously?”

“Unfortunately, yes. Your flat will need to be checked as well.”

“Oh God.” Greg reached for the sheet and pulled it up, covering both of them. “Will it need to be bugged?”

“No. I’m not that important. But the alarm needs to be upgraded.” He snaked one of his legs between Greg’s. “Now tell me how you found a flat that size in Notting Hill. Not exactly a modest corner of London, and I don’t think a constable’s salary is all that much, right?”

“Hell no, it isn’t. You see, Uncle Thomas arranged for me to stay with his uncle Randolph when I first came to London…”

And they finally updated each other on what had happened during the past four years.  Greg told Mycroft about the shooting and about Penelope Morgan who had been the first one to tell him about Shifters and who had undertaken his initial training, and Mycroft told Greg about Guangli and how he had practised his abilities under the Daoist monk’s supervision, sharpening his Senses and polishing his Gifts.  He told Greg as much about his professional training as he could without giving delicate information away, and Greg talked about his career and his upcoming promotion, and how Uncle Randolph had decided to sign his Notting Hill flat over to Greg the moment he found out about Greg being a Shifter.

“I had no idea,” Greg said, “I mean, I’d been living with him for two years and I had no idea he was an Anchor.”

“You were untrained when you came to London,” Mycroft pointed out and Greg nodded.

“You’re probably right. He must have noticed immediately but he didn’t say a word until I got home from hospital. He took care of all of the bills, you know. I was mortified when I found out but he just waved it away. I mean, I didn’t realise I received first class treatment. I’d never been to hospital so I didn’t know any better and I’m surprised Uncle Thomas didn’t say a word when he came to visit. Anyway,” he started drawing lazy circles on Mycroft’s arm and shoulder, “we had a long conversation one day. I learnt so much from him,” he shook his head, “you wouldn’t believe it. He knows so much more than even Pen, and she’s a very smart woman.”

Mycroft craned his neck to look at the alarm clock. “When do you need to be at work, Greg? It’s almost five.”

“I have taken today off. It’s my birthday, you know.”

“Really?”

“Yes. Nineteenth of May. My birthday. I’m twenty-nine. Just imagine, next year I’ll be thirty.”

“Ancient,” Mycroft said, grinning. “Happy birthday, old man. I’m sorry I didn’t bring a present.”

“You can buy a new box of condoms.” Greg looked down between them. “How much time until you have to leave?”

“Until Sunday.”

“Make it two. And bring lube. Four years, Mycroft. We have a lot of catching up to do.”

“We do,” Mycroft confirmed.

“And wherever you go next, you’ll go there with me all over your system.”

“Promises, promises.”

“Is that a challenge?”

Mycroft raised a haughty eyebrow. “Problem?”

“Not thirty yet, Fluffy.”

******

They met before the _Red Twig_ where Greg’s uncle Randolph had invited them for a lunch to celebrate Greg’s birthday.  Upon entering the restaurant they were led to a table in one of the restaurant‘s quiet corners where an elderly gentleman sat waiting for them.  He rose when they approached and greeted Greg with an air of easy familiarity.  Mycroft stood frozen to the spot and watched as the two men embraced, watched as Greg laughed and kissed the older man’s cheek.

Randolph Daniels was Uncle Randolph?  Randolph Daniels, whom he had never met in person but whose name was whispered respectfully, almost reverently throughout the organisation?  Hadn’t Greg said he was a banker?  He searched his memory but was certain he hadn’t missed any information with regards to the mysterious Uncle Randolph.  Former banker, comfortably situated if not rich, had paid Greg’s hospitals bills and signed over his Notting Hill flat to his great-nephew upon discovering his Shifter nature.  No, that was all the information he had.

He had his features under control just in time and didn’t flinch when a pair of sharp blue eyes swept over him as if performing a full-body scan with one glance.  He met Randolph’s eyes with outward calm, doing some scrutinising of his own.

“It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, Mycroft,” Randolph said and held out his hand.  Mycroft shook hands with him and took his seat next to Greg as indicated. 

“Likewise,” he replied politely. “Although I am afraid you have me at a disadvantage.”

“Well, it’s about time we change that, isn’t it.”

He gestured for the waiter to bring the menus.  Greg and Mycroft studied the selection and when they had decided, chatted commonplaces until the waiter had taken their orders.

“Greg tells me you’ve just returned from Hong Kong, Mycroft,” Randolph said, “and that you have a Master’s in PPE.”

“And a Bachelor in informatics and mathematics,” Greg chipped in, as proudly as if Mycroft’s academic achievements were his to flaunt.

“Really?” Randolph asked with raised eyebrows and Mycroft found himself subject to another scrutinising stare.

He cleared his throat, uncomfortable. “It’s applied mathematics and informatics and yes, I’ve obtained a Bachelor’s degree in both. I’m interested in computers,” he explained. “They offer such a wealth of possibilities. Just imagine what a network of linked computers could do to support police work.”

“What, enter a few words and out comes a list of possible suspects?” Greg snorted. “That’s not honest police work. You can’t solve a case by sitting at your desk like an accountant.”

“Of course not. But think of a database where you can pull facts from previous cases and compare them with what you’re working on, instead of spending hours leafing through yellowed reports with faded typing.”

“Sneezing.”

“Headaches.”

“Fluorescent lighting.”

When the waiter brought their drinks, Randolph raised his glass. “A toast to the birthday boy,” he said, smiling at Greg.

“To the birthday boy,” Mycroft echoed and gave Greg’s hand a quick squeeze.

“Any particular wish?”

“Apart from world peace, you mean?” Greg swirled his red wine. “Believe it or not, but right now, I’m perfectly happy.” He brushed his fingers lightly across Mycroft’s knuckles. _::Stay. That would be my biggest wish::_

_::I can’t.::_

_::I know.::_

“Then keep that perfect moment close to your heart,” Randolph said, suddenly serious. “Stow it safely away so you may revisit it in times of need.”

“Uncle Randolph,” Greg protested. “You’re making me nervous. Anything I should know?”

“No, everything is just fine. Forgive an old man’s whims.”

“Please. Old man indeed. You’re seventy-four. And the way you’re holding up, you’ll stay around a little while longer.”

“Thanks, Gregory,” Randolph meekly said. “I appreciate your optimism. You will allow me to refrain from running this year’s London Marathon, I hope.”

“Ah,” Greg made a grand gesture, “that’s quite alright. There’s always the British Open to look forward to.”

“You play golf?” Mycroft asked and Greg snorted.

“He’s a killer on the golf course. You don’t want to cross irons with him.”

“What, Greg, you play, too?”

“Hell no I don’t. But I sometimes pick him up and you wouldn’t believe the elaborate insults those elderly gentlemen throw at each other.”

“Greg, please.” Randolph pretended to be embarrassed but his pale blue eyes sparkled with amusement.

“It’s true! What’s the name of that round-faced fellow? Jenkins? Jarvis?”

“I believe you’re thinking of Mr Jaslin.”

“Yeah, Jaslin, that’s him. Last time I picked you up I overheard him expressing the heartfelt wish to just swing his eight iron the wrong way.”

“If you need a bodyguard, I’m here until Sunday,” Mycroft offered.

“Do you play?”

“No, at least not yet. I am afraid there will be no way around tees and drivers at some point in the future.”

“Go with Uncle Randolph when you’re here. He’ll teach you.” He grinned at Mycroft over the rim of his wineglass. “All I know about golf is that clubs come in various sizes and they have a head and a shaft. I think I have sufficient proficiency to handle heads, shafts and balls without wandering about in search of holes.”

Randolph started coughing and Mycroft felt heat creep up his neck.  Greg’s grin widened and he emptied his wineglass, clearly enjoying himself.

By the time their food was served, Mycroft and Randolph were on the best of terms and talked amicably about Hong Kong where Randolph, too, had spent three years during his forties.

“I didn’t know you worked abroad,” Greg said. “Uncle Thomas never mentioned it.”

“That’s because not very many people know, and I prefer to keep it that way.”

Greg narrowed his eyes. “I don’t understand.”

“Let’s just say that for a certain amount of time I worked for the same employer as young Mycroft here.”

“How did you –” Mycroft noticed he was gaping and closed his mouth. 

“No way!” Greg leaned back, stunned. “But I thought –” he noticed he had raised his voice and quickly got himself back under control. “I thought you were a banker?”

“And so I was. In a manner of speaking. At least from my sixty-fifth birthday until the day I retired. As for your question,” he directed his gaze towards Mycroft, “there’s no mystery attached. I saw you this morning. Simple as that.”

“Ah,” Mycroft said, relieved. “You had me worried for a moment.”

“I’m not omniscient. Sadly. I’ve tried all of my life. An eidetic memory would have helped but alas, I’m not among the chosen ones.”

“I shall strive for omniscience then, Mr Daniels. With your permission.”

“Permission granted. And it’s Randolph, please.”

“Thank you. Randolph.”

 

When Greg asked to briefly excuse him between the main course and dessert, Randolph dabbed the corners of his mouth with the linen napkin.

“You will hurt him, you know,” he said in a conversational tone, neatly folded the napkin and placed it on the table.

“I do not –” Mycroft began but the older man raised his hand.

“You will not want to but you must. Partly because you won’t know any better and partly because your job will demand it. If your career is heading where I think it is headed, there’ll be no way around it.”

“And what makes you so sure?”

“Because I know about these things. Listen,” he leaned forward, “there’s not much time. When the moment comes, there’s two things you must do. You must be certain whether you want your Bond to remain intact –”

“I don’t see –” Again, Mycroft was stopped mid-sentence.

“– and you must go to your Mentor at once. You have a Mentor, haven’t you?”

Mycroft nodded stiffly. “A Daoist monk.”

“Anchor or Shifter?”

“Anchor.”

“Brilliant. Even if you forget everything you’ve learnt, do remember to seek his advice and guidance. I will tell Greg to do the same.” Randolph’s eyes held Mycroft’s, adamantly, until Mycroft lowered his gaze and nodded. “Good lad.” He reached for the wine list and studied it with apparent interest while Mycroft fought to regain his composure.

 

He had been to Century House before meeting Greg at the _Red Twig_ , and his information regarding his new London address and the request to add Greg’s name to his list of emergency contacts had been met with raised eyebrows.

“Surely this is only temporary?” the middle-aged woman had asked. “Moving in with one of your Oxford chums?”

“Mr Lestrade is not one of my Oxford chums,” Mycroft had replied, somewhat stiffly. “He’s my friend.”

“Well,” a sheet of paper was slid across her desk, “you sign here,” she pointed, “and here.” He scribbled his name where indicated and slid the paper back.  She checked his signature and nodded. “Thank you. Now if you take a seat over there I’ll see if Mr Sefton can see you now.”

If his assistant had raised her eyebrows, Sefton knit his together closely enough to create a unibrow impression.

“What’s that supposed to mean, request permission to enter into a relationship with –” he checked the slim plastic folder, “– Gregory Lestrade? Does Robson know you’re a poof?”

“If you’re asking if he is aware of my personal preferences, sir, yes, he is.”

“And he doesn’t mind?”

“Not that I’m aware of.”

“And your team?”

“My private life was never subject to discussion where work was concerned.”

The conversation had continued for a while with an unpleasant undertone and Mycroft had left Sefton’s office in a state of barely suppressed indignation but unaware of the nasty seed that had just been planted.

 

He was yanked out of his gloomy musings when Greg returned and took his seat beside him once more, not without letting his hand rest between Mycroft’s shoulder blades for a little longer than was strictly necessary.  The small patch of warmth caused a pleasant tingle along his spine and his spirits lifted, and he let himself be persuaded to order a small chocolate cake for dessert for which the _Red Twig_ was said to be famous.  When it was served, he looked dubiously down at his plate, thinking longingly of the menu’s fruit section.  There had been vanilla-roasted peaches with strawberry.  Baked apples with cinnamon cream.  Raspberry Trifle.  This… cake the size of an average camembert was topped with, or rather soaked in a luscious, thick chocolate sauce.  It was glossy.  It made his pancreas cringe. 

Greg shot him a glance and grinned.  “Try it,” he urged. “It is so much better than it looks.”

He gave a polite smile, put the tiniest of nips on the fork and sniffed it before he put it in his mouth.  The chocolate had a rich, warm smell to it and it tasted –

“Oh!” he said, surprised.  The texture was light and airy, not at all heavy or chocolate-greasy.  It was delicious, and his next bite was not a tiny one.  He closed his eyes to savour the taste, turning the fork in his mouth, tempted to lick it.  Images of that rich, dark chocolate sauce dripping onto tanned skin flooded his mind and a wave of lust washed over him.  He opened his eyes again to find Greg’s gaze fixed on him, his dark irises glowing softly with an amber undertone.  He was aware of his trousers becoming uncomfortable tight and of Randolph pointedly concentrating on his watermelon salad.  He saw the older man’s mouth twitch and experienced a moment of mortification at the idea of either his or Greg’s Shield slipping, or them being so obvious that it didn’t take much deduction skills to notice what was going on.  Probably a combination of both.  He watched Greg’s tongue dart out to wet his lower lip, and images of that pink tip licking up chocolate drops off his pale skin almost made him squirm.

“If it’s alright with you I’ll ask for the bill,” Randolph said in a conversational tone. “I have taken up quite enough of your time. Young men shouldn’t be stuck with a retiree if there’s a birthday to celebrate.”

“Uncle Randolph!” Greg protested. “We’re not stuck with you!”

“Maybe you aren’t,” he raised his hand to signal the waiter, “and I thank you for saying so. But you will not deny you have other things on your mind right now than making polite conversation over a cup of coffee.”

Greg didn’t deny it.  Instead, he bestowed one of his sunny smiles on Randolph.

“Thanks. And you’re not angry?”

“Not at all.”

The waiter arrived and Randolph asked for the bill.  When the young man nodded and turned to fetch it, Randolph added, as if on second thought, “May I trouble you with something else?”

“Certainly, sir. What can I do for you?”

“Forgive an old man for wishing to indulge a whim, but would you kindly ask Charles if I might take some of his wonderful chocolate sauce home?” He gave an apologetic smile. “I was trying to be reasonable and stick with a fruit dessert but I would dearly love some chocolate with my afternoon tea and scone.”

“No problem at all, Mr Daniels. I’m sure Charles will be happy to oblige. I’ll go to the kitchen immediately.”

“Thank you, Toby.”

When Toby had vanished, Randolph leaned back in his chair, placed his napkin on the table and smoothed it.

“So, Mycroft, do you already know what to do with yourself during the days? Greg will have to work, right, Greg?”

Greg nodded. “I don’t think I can take the rest of the week off. But I’ll try not to be too late in the evenings.”

Mycroft shrugged a shoulder. “I must tell my parents about my new accommodation,” he smiled, “and I will need to arrange for my things to be picked up.”

“We can go together,” Greg offered. “We could rent a van or something. Do you have a lot of furniture?”

“Thanks, Greg, but I couldn’t possibly –”

“Bollocks,” Greg blithely said. “Of course you could. I’d be glad to help.”

“You wouldn’t mind?”

“’course not, silly. And I would get to meet your parents and that little brother of yours.”

Mycroft winced. “If you do that, you might have to reconsider your offer to let me move in with you.”

“What?” Greg laughed. “Is your family that scary?”

“Oh, my parents aren’t. Well, Mummy can be if she chooses to, but I’m sure she’ll like you well enough. But Sherlock,” he sighed, “let’s just say he isn’t easy.”

“But he never was, right?” Greg gave Mycroft’s arm a reassuring squeeze. “Better get it over and done with. Besides, he’s not moving in with me. You are.”

Toby approached their table with a small silver tray that held the bill.  Randolph cast a swift glance over it and reached for the pen in his inside pocket.  He scribbled something on the bill and placed his credit card on the tray.

“Thank you,” he said, and Toby gave a little bow.

“Thank you, sir.” He made a brisk turn on his heels and headed for the cashier’s to process the payment.

Randolph put the pen back and produced a slim wallet.  He pulled a business card out and slid it across the table towards Mycroft.

“Maybe you have time for an afternoon tea while you’re here, Mycroft.”

Mycroft took the card. “I’d be delighted,” he said and tucked it safely into his wallet after studying it carefully. “Thank you.”

Greg raised an inquisitive eyebrow. “What’s that? Are you going to tell him embarrassing stories about me, Uncle Randolph?”

“I had planned to quiz Mycroft about Hong Kong and exchange impressions but now that you mention it, I’m sure I can persuade Susan to send me a few family memorabilia to share with your friend.”

“Oh please,” Greg made a pained face and Randolph laughed.

“Don’t worry, Greg. My motives are entirely selfish. I quite enjoyed my time in Hong Kong and I’m interested to hear what Mycroft has to say.”

 

After Toby had returned the credit card along with the receipt, Charles had brought a small bottle of his trademark chocolate sauce to the table himself and exchanged a few pleasantries with one of the _Red Twig’s_ patrons.  Randolph had thanked him for making his visit yet another pleasant experience, and they were bowed out of the restaurant by a beaming chef.

While they waited for Randolph’s car to pull up, Randolph turned to Greg and Mycroft and presented them with his bottle.

“A little birthday present, Greg,” he said with a sly smile. “I believe you’ll put it to better use than I ever could.”

Mycroft felt his ears grow hot and Greg blushed, too.

“Uhm –,” he began but Randolph cut him off.

“Monday morning at precisely nine-fifteen, my boy. Your Shield work was abysmal. Dr Morgan apparently has not put you through a proper stress test or else she would have noticed.”

Greg hung his head, embarrassed but grinning nevertheless.

“You, on the other hand,” Randolph directed one of his sharp laser gazes towards Mycroft, “I should very much like to find out about you. I believe there’s a lot more to you than meets the eye.”

Mycroft held Randolph’s pale blue eyes without flinching and felt something Touch him.

“Impressive,” the older man murmured, then shook hands with them once more and got into his car.

They waited until the sleek black limousine pulled back into traffic, then turned to go.

“What a remarkable man,” Mycroft said. “I’m very glad you invited me to join you for lunch. I think there’s a lot I can learn from him.”

“Yeah, Uncle Randolph sure is full of surprises. I had no idea he was in your, uh, line of work.” He took the lid off the small bottle, sniffed and grinned. “Let’s go home, Mycroft. I have this sudden yearning for a second helping of chocolate.” He wiggled his eyebrows suggestively and Mycroft laughed.

“Nothing wrong with that.”

He didn’t protest when Greg linked arms with him, and Greg didn’t protest when they stopped at a chemist’s shop along the way.  They needed stocking up on certain supplies, after all.

******

True to his word, Greg organised a van to pick up Mycroft’s meagre belongings from his parents’ house.  Much to his disappointment, neither Mycroft’s formidable mother nor his brother were at home but Mycroft’s father greeted him with a friendly smile and an excellent tea.  Greg developed an instant liking towards the quiet, unassuming man and was quickly on the easiest of terms with him.  They settled into the family’s sitting room and chatted about Greg’s past employment as a circus clown and Mr Holmes’s passion for dahlias, and Greg charmed him by saying, yes, he would love to see the garden.  He listened patiently to Mr Holmes’s botanical excursions and even managed to interject a few sentences that earned him approving hums.  He had picked up some things while staying with Uncle Randolph who was an avid rose grower and was putting his knowledge to the best of use.

Mycroft met them outside when he was finished packing.

“Greg, I’m afraid I need your help to haul my reading chair downstairs,” he said in an apologetic tone. “It’s too bulky to carry it all by myself.”

“You’re not emptying your entire room, are you?” his father asked, slightly alarmed.

“No, Dad, just the most important books and journals. My sketchbooks, too, and my pens and pencils, and my CDs. And some of my clothes, of course.”

His father sighed. “Your mother will be devastated she’s missed you.”

“When will she be back, do you know?” Greg asked, remembering how emotional Aunt Susan had been when he had packed his things to move to London.

Mr Holmes checked his watch. “She should be back in about two hours. She’s taken Sherlock to Southampton.”

Greg nodded as if he understood the meaning of this and Mycroft rolled his eyes.

“What for? He’s never going to study with Professor Hills. Besides, don’t you think it would be wiser if he found a professor at Cambridge?”

“You know your mother,” Mr Holmes spread his hands in a helpless gesture and Mycroft huffed.

“What’s he studying?” Greg asked, curious.

“My brother plays the violin,” Mycroft said. “He’s actually very good. My mother thinks he should study full-time and become a musician.”

“And what about Cambridge?”

“He’s reading chemistry.” He gave a wry smile. “One of these days he’s going to blow up the house while conducting one of his experiments.”

“Violin, huh.” He eyed Mycroft from the side. “Do you play an instrument, too?”

Mr Holmes uttered something that sounded suspiciously like a laugh and Mycroft glared at him.

“I don’t,” he said stiffly.

“My oldest does not have one musical bone in his body,” Mr Holmes chuckled and Mycroft glared some more. “We tried to get him interested in the piano when he was little but we were secretly grateful when he stopped playing at the age of ten.”

“Dad,” Mycroft said in a tormented voice.

“But he dances.”

“Dad!”

“Really?” Greg shot Mycroft a surprised look. “Didn’t you say you’re a swimmer?”

“I am. And I’ve taken up t’ai chi when I was in Hong Kong. And some Aikido and Iaido when I was in Tokyo. But I like the t’ai chi and Shaolin sword forms better so I dropped Iaido after a while.”

“Dancing, Mycroft,” Greg wouldn’t let go and Mycroft sighed.

“I took ballet lessons when I was growing up because I was all arms and legs and thought it would help me look less awkward.”

“And did it?”

Mycroft shrugged. “I guess so. And I quite enjoyed the training. Nothing like ballet lessons to give you full body control. I never danced on stage,” he hastened to add.

“Do you still dance?”

“Of course not. I don’t have the time. But I still do the stretching before I do anything else.”

Greg swallowed, the thought of Mycroft stretching and bending at impossible angles doing him no favour.

“Why don’t you boys take a walk,” Mr Holmes suggested, in blissful ignorance of Greg’s suddenly distracted state and Mycroft’s wicked smirk. “Mycroft can show you around town and by the time you get back, you can meet my wife and our youngest, and you can all say your proper good-byes then.”

The plan agreed with them and after they had put Mycroft’s reading chair into the van that was still laughably empty, Mycroft followed his father’s suggestion and climbed in behind the steering wheel with the intention of showing Greg the area where he had grown up.  Greg, however, had other things in mind and directed Mycroft to a narrow country lane far off the road.  Mycroft didn’t take very long to catch on and he parked the van next to an abandoned farm building. 

Although the rented vehicle was nowhere near as comfortable as Erwin, Greg’s old campervan, it served its purpose – if a little diverted from its intended use – well enough and Mycroft lost no time demonstrating just how flexible he really was.  Greg, on the other hand, was grateful for the summer fling he had enjoyed with one of his company’s contortionists, a delightfully unashamed blond named Robbie who had taught him what to do with legs that could spread impossibly wide.

 

When they returned to Mycroft’s home, his brother still was nowhere in sight but Mrs Holmes more than made up for it.  She was indeed a formidable woman, intimidating at first, but she, too, quickly warmed up to Greg’s charms and when it was time for Mycroft and Greg to leave, they parted on the best of terms.

******

Greg and Mycroft said their good-byes on Monday morning, Greg being on the late shift and summoned to meet Uncle Randolph at nine-fifteen, and Mycroft expected at Century House at ten sharp.  This time, however, they said their good-byes with hearts that were much lighter than the previous times.  

Greg knew Mycroft would come home to him.   
Mycroft knew he had Greg to come home to.

 

But the snake sat lurking in the grass.


End file.
